O, Cruel Fate!
by greywing
Summary: A reclusive botanist finds herself unceremoniously whisked into Middle Earth...in the form of the studliest male elf to ever walk the face of Arda. Featuring irritated Valar,fainting ellith, an unscrupulous healer, and a completely clueless Cirdan.
1. A Series of Unfortunate Accidents

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Ellie was the sort of person who never, _ever_ got into trouble. In fact, trouble would have probably turned tail and fled screaming in the other direction in the unlikely event that it caught sight of the tip of her last toenail. Bespectacled, gangly, and just about as sociable or attractive as a 12th century hermit, she lived her days in blissful mediocrity, her most remarkable traits being her perfectly rational fear of cockroaches, a rather odd weakness for pretty, feminine articles of clothing, and the eccentric habit of reading entirely too much for her own good.

So it came to pass that one day, Ellie was contentedly admiring the microscopic detail of the hairs on the underside of a particular kind of fuzzy leaf (the scientific name of which was only known to three living human beings), when the PCR machine on the bench behind her decided that then would be a most appropriate time to explode.

**Somewhere, Somewhen, Really Far Away, Possibly in Another Universe Altogether…**

Vaire the Weaver gave another almighty sigh. Her breath misted on the upper-right corner of her tapestry, wetting and sagging the threads, thus inadvertently causing three random elves to suddenly and inexplicably fall into the Celebrant.

Vaire was Not Happy. One would think she was busy enough, weaving the fates of every living sentient being in existence. Her husband seemed to think otherwise. The Doomsman had been greatly impressed by a particular elf's noble, valiant deeds, and had decided to release his fea from his halls _and_ send him back across the Sea to do even _more _noble, valiant deeds (which would of course have to be woven into her tapestries). Vaire snorted in a most un-Valar like way. Her husband was really too soft-hearted for his own good. First that daughter of Melian's, now this… what was his name again? Ah yes.

Grumbling under her breath, the Weaver put away the current tapestry, shook out another and began to pluck carefully at a few threads. Re-embodiments were _so_ tedious. She had thought she was finished with this particular one since…oh, millennia ago.

A sudden, ear-splitting shriek made her jump. Maeglin again, thought Vaire irritably. That wretched creature was always getting frightened out of his wits by his father. Mandos should really know better than to house that little dysfunctional family together. She turned her attention back to the tapestry and started in horror when she realized that her nail had snagged the cloth- causing a great deal of irreversible, cosmic damage. Eyes glued to the horrific scene playing out before her, Vaire decided to abandon over a hundred millennia of cultivated divine dignity.

Her screeches of rage reverberated throughout every corner of Valinor. Eöl squealed like a girl and hid himself, Feanor cringed in his solitary cell and Manwe developed a pounding migraine. Even Morgoth, safely tucked away in the Void, shuddered involuntarily.

Somewhere across the Sea, Ellie awoke to the sound of waves crashing on a beach and the uncomfortable sensation of sand wedging in every conceivable orifice, including areas where the sun doth not shine. She groaned as she hauled her face out of the sand and sat up, clawing her masses of golden hair out of her eyes… wait a second. _Golden_ hair? _Masses_ of _golden _hair? The last she remembered, it was black, short, and vaguely mop-like. She twirled a lock of it in front of her in disbelief. Even coated in sand it had more shine than polished chrome. And what was she doing on a beach? And her body did not feel quite right, somehow. It felt…stronger.

Looking down at herself, Ellie was struck by her absence of clothing. Actually, she was struck by the absence of certain mounds of flesh that were meant to be at least partially obstructing the view down south. Say, were those abs? And good God, what was that… that _thing_ between her legs? At the last discovery, poor Ellie completely lost it. She then did what any self-respecting, hysterical female would do under such circumstances – she screamed. Loudly. And then she fainted.

To Be Continued…

Please comment and point out any mistakes. Thank you.


	2. Various Discoveries

Disclaimer: None belong to me.

Círdan the Shipwright strolled leisurely and aimlessly down the northern beach of Mithlond, enjoying the crisp, salt breeze of the early morning. He had been up and about four hours before dawn, escaping the troublesomely enigmatic dreams that plagued his sleep. The Valar were somewhat overfond of sending him prophetic visions to assist with their various little schemes on Arda, but Círdan, being a practical, literal sort of person (like most shipwrights. Really, try building a ship out of your dreams and see if it even floats), seldom managed to interpret them. So more often than not the visions had to be relentlessly pounded into his mind over the course of a few weeks, with subtle emphases on particular parts whenever possible (without making everything blatantly obvious). It made for a rather disconcerting dreamworld that was only marginally less stressful than real life, and Círdan did not like it at all.

Lórien had been particularly forceful in the recent nights, to the point of virtually grabbing Círdan by the collar and yelling words of prophecy in his ear. It hadn't worked. Even now he had not the faintest inkling of what the Lord of Dreams had been so excited about.

"_Mark ye he who rises from the ashes,"_ the Vala had said (or rather, shouted). _"He is the Servant of the Star, a Light against Shadow, the lone blossom in a field of green." _

An anguished roar rent the air, sending the gulls wheeling overhead scattering in all directions, and rousing the Shipwright from his quiet musings. Did someone stub his toe on a plank again? He hastened in the direction of the sound.

The Shipwright found a figure lying unconscious on his back on the white sands. An elf, naked as the day he was born, with long golden hair brighter than Gil-galad's armor1, and eyes as blue as the sky. _That hair_, thought Círdan. _There is only one person in existence with hair that ridiculous shade of gold. _He searched his memory for a name, and came up with nothing. He tried again, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. He probed the dark recesses of his brain long and hard, and finally found what he was looking for, in the dusty section mentally marked "Blond People I Met in the First Age", and triumphantly dragged the morsel of information to his lips.

"Glorfindel!" he pronounced happily. Then he frowned. He was quite sure that this Glorfindel fellow was supposed to be dead; all the unwed elleths had wept for a month when the news arrived. And while the still figure before him certainly _looked_ dead, he severely doubted that a body required several millennia to decompose. Círdan bent and placed two fingers on the side of Glorfindel's neck. Blessed be the Valar! This fellow had a pulse! Without further ado the Shipwright scooped the elf up in his arms (thousands of years of ship-building tends to develop arms of iron) and trotted back to the Havens.

---

Back in Valinor, Mandos wrung his hands in despair as he paced the length of his halls. He had spent the entire day soothing a very upset Vaire, and punished both Eöl and Maeglin by locking them up with Feanor for the next five hundred years. The situation was Very Dire indeed- it was the first time such a thing had ever happened, and Manwe was Not Pleased. He had been told to settle the problem as quickly as possible, Or Else. The question was… how? There were, after all, limits to even a Vala's powers.

---

Ellie awoke again for the second time in a day, this time to the sensation of something cool and damp being pressed to her forehead. Blinking, she found herself staring into a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes, which widened slightly when they saw that she was awake. The owner of said blue eyes was the most splendid male specimen Ellie had ever clapped eyes on, with flawless complexion, a finely chiseled face, and dark brown curls that gently cascaded over his shoulders. His only faults seemed to be his oddly-shaped ears and a peculiar penchant for wearing shiny diamante clips in his hair. He smiled, and at that instant Ellie's brain melted into a puddle of greasy bliss. _Hello, Handsome_, thought Ellie, grinning idiotically.

Handsome grinned back at her, and chattered something unintelligible in his melodious tenor. "Sorry, I don't understand," said Ellie, sitting up, and paused in shock. Her voice sounded strange to her ears; it was deep, silky and unmistakably _male_.

Slowly but surely, the jellied bits that constituted Ellie's hapless mind picked themselves up from the aforementioned puddle and began to function. Then she remembered. She grabbed a handful of the sickeningly yellow hair and glared accusingly at it. She felt about her chest (now covered in a nightshirt) and grimly noted that it was disappointingly flat and muscular. She discreetly felt further down under the sheets and reaffirmed the presence of something that really shouldn't have been there.

So, it hadn't been a dream. Ellie promptly concluded that she had been kidnapped by maniacs, given a sex-change operation, deposited on some foreign beach, and then rescued by a friendly local.

Dazedly, she gazed about her and noticed for the first time that the décor didn't vaguely resemble anything modern. Or any style from the past few centuries throughout the known world, for that matter. She turned to the bemused Handsome, and her botanist's eye observed something she hadn't been aware of before.

"You know," she began calmly. "You're actually vaguely incandescent." Handsome cocked his head, uncomprehending, and said something in his musical language. Ellie ignored it and continued, her voice slightly shaky. "Actually, I don't think you're human at all."

Then she turned her eyes to the ceiling and screamed, and screamed and screamed until something heavy descended upon her head with a tremendous _whump_, and the world went black. Again.

1 It is said that Erenion was named Gil-galad for his shiny armor, which could be seen from a great distance in either sunlight of moonlight, making him a veritable "Star of Radiance".

TBC: In the next chapter, the handsome healer discusses his patient with his lord, and Ellie discovers how deeply in trouble she really is.


	3. Elrond, Elrond, Elrond, and a Rude Shock

Truly, I did not expect so many positive reviews. I am flattered. Thank you all. Perhaps I shall respond to individuals in later chapters? Anyway, here is an ultra long chapter in token of thanks. My apologies for the delay… I've just moved to the U.K and am fairly busy settling in. Anyway, just a brief note: these few chapters are set around 1500 of the 2nd Age, but the story will carry on into the Ring War in the 3rd Age and maybe even beyond. Suggestions for story developments are most welcome.

Disclaimer: None belong to me. Must I do this for ALL writings?

Neldor the healer sighed in relief as his latest patient slumped back onto the bed, knocked completely senseless by the hefty copy of "The Beauty of Poisons (F.A 300, Eöl of Nan Elmoth)" he had conveniently swiped from a nearby table ( after briefly wondering what a tome with such a title was doing in the infirmary). The elf had seemed nice enough-he'd even smiled (rare to see in this profession)-even if he _was_ a little odd. Until he went completely mad and started screaming at the top of his lungs. Really, that was a little premature. Neldor hadn't even begun any of his notoriously bloody surgical procedures yet.

Just then, the door swung open to reveal a very displeased-looking Círdan, apparently drawn by the commotion. He raised a very lordly silver eyebrow at the sight of the rapidly developing bruise on the unconscious elf's temple, and glanced sidelong at the healer. Neldor swallowed nervously and attempted, vainly, to hide the incriminating evidence behind his back.

"My lord," Neldor began. "I can explain."

"Please do," replied Círdan mildly. "Please explain why you just thwacked the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, hero of Gondolin, twice-born Balrog Slayer and beloved emissary of the Valar, on the head."

Neldor's eyes grew as large and round as saucers. "You mean Glorfindel?"

"Aye, Neldor."

"That half-Vanyar fellow?"

"Aye."

"The very one that fought the Balrog and died?"

"Aye."

"The one that was rumored to have a weakness for purple silk tights?"

"Aye-nay!" said Círdan, annoyed. Glorfindel did not wear purple silk tights-that was Duilin, who loved the color so much he dyed his arrow fletchings to match (1). "Now will you tell me why you hit Glorfindel on the head or not?"

Neldor sniffed. It was not his business, he supposed, to wonder why his lord had lugged in an unconscious long-dead hero like the day's catch of herring, and why said long-dead hero, upon attaining consciousness, didn't act like a long-dead hero at all. So Neldor straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and tried to look as important and professional as possible.

"I had no choice, my lord," he began. "Lord Glorfindel was exhibiting symptoms of extreme mental instability – spouting nonsense, calm one moment, hysterical the next… if you ask me, these are the classic signs, almost textbook, really, of -"

Círdan held up a hand, interrupting the healer mid-ramble. "I think you should send for Elrond," he said.

"What?" spluttered Neldor. "But why? I am sure that the Lord Herald has more important business…"

"This is more than important business," corrected Círdan. "It is _critical_ business. I have ships to build, new blueprints to review, papers to sign and teary farewells to organize, and I can _not_ do any of these things efficiently unless the Valar leave me alone to have a good night's rest. And for the Valar to leave me alone I need Glorfindel up, coherent, and completely sane. Do you understand, healer?"

"Yes, Lord Círdan," replied Neldor sulkily.

"Good. Then see that it is done." The Shipwright turned on his heel and exited, slamming the door shut behind him.

Neldor glared at the uncooperatively unconscious form in front of him. _Elrond_, he thought bitterly. It was always Elrond. Break a leg? Send for Elrond. The missus' feminine discomforts acting up again? No fear, Elrond Halfelven is here! Dying of grief? Fading? Just call for Elrond, and everything will be right as rain, even if all he does is send you over the Sea. It was true that ever since his appointment as Herald, and newly discovered hobby of aggravating Annatar (2), the Peredhel seldom made house calls. But that didn't stop big shots like Círdan from summoning the healer whenever the fancy took them. That's what Elrond was. The Healer, with a capital T and H. No one ever remembered that other healers actually _existed_. No one cared that Neldor son of Almir, Master Healer of the Havens, author of "144 Uses of Athelas (3)", was the leading expert on the use of common weeds in healing, and had probably saved more people in the past millennium than Elrond had ever seen in his entire life.

No, it was always the young, brilliant ones that got all the attention. And now, Elrond was to treat this resurrected celebrity-_ his_ patient, thought Neldor passionately- and would get all the credit, again. Unless…

Slowly, Neldor's lips curved up in a devious smile. Unless he struck first.

No, he would not disobey Círdan (who was the source of a sizable income). He would send for the Peredhel. But he would ensure that Elrond took the longest possible time to reach the Havens (no mean feat considering that it wasn't all that far away from Lindon). And by the time he arrived, he, Neldor son of Almir, Master Healer of the Havens, author of "144 Uses of Athelas", and not Elrond Peredhel, would have restored the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower to all his shining golden-flowery glory.

---

Ellie was persuaded to awaken by the application of several litres of cold water. She sat up, gasping and cursing and very cross indeed. Then she looked about and was greeted by the disturbing sight of Handsome smiling sweetly at her, a large, suspiciously damp and ornately carved basin cradled in his arms. There was a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that told her that Handsome, charming and innocent looks notwithstanding, probably had something to do with her last blackout as well, being a glowing alien and all. Never, ever judge a book by its cover.

"What's your problem, E.T?" she snapped, wringing out a waterlogged handful of hair. Handsome's brilliant blue eyes widened ingenuously as his perfectly formed lips pursed into a most lovely pout. Ellie's irritation evaporated instantly, leaving her brain free to undergo meltdown once more. Ah, hell. This book had a really pretty cover, even if it came from outer space.

While Ellie was at a loss for words, Handsome set down the basin and turned earnestly to her. He began to speak very slowly, looking deeply into her eyes. Ellie shook her head dazedly, enchanted. "No dear," she said. "I'm afraid I don't understand you." Handsome frowned and tried again, speaking in a tongue that seemed similar to the first, but less lilting and richer in sound. She shook her head again. "No, I'm sorry. Don't you guys have like universal translators or something? I mean, you traveled across space to abduct me? Where's all your technology?" She waved a hand at her surroundings. "I mean, everything looks almost Middle-Ages, only much prettier. I was expecting computers and sleek black consoles and stuff. I guess you guys are rather odd, huh."

Handsome then replied in the first language he had used, and Ellie's faltering brain, inundated by strange words, unexpectedly clung onto one particular word like a drowning rat to a piece of driftwood-_Mithlond_. Why that was familiar Ellie had no idea. Perhaps it was the name of some faraway galaxy she was in?

"Is this place," she started slowly, spreading her arms and gesticulating to indicate the general area around her. "This place…is Mithlond?" Handsome let out a small excited cry and clapped his hands, nodding enthusiastically and jabbering away all the while. Ellie couldn't help smiling; Handsome's antics were so…_human_. "Alright," she enthused. "Perhaps we can get somewhere after all." She pointed to herself. "Ellie." She then pointed to Handsome, raising a questioning eyebrow. "What about you?"

Handsome looked handsomely perturbed. "El-ly?" he repeated. Ellie nodded. "Yes, yes, me Ellie," she said, patting herself on the chest. "You?" Handsome placed a hand on her shoulder and said her name, then shook his head vehemently. It was almost as if he were saying she _wasn't_ Ellie. He placed his other hand on his chest. "Neldor," he stated clearly. Then he patted Ellie's shoulder. "Glorfindel."

Ellie was about to protest when a thought struck her. Glorfindel-that was what she had been called. Handsome (or rather, Neldor) appeared to know her. What if she hadn't had a sex change and hair transplant, and was actually in _someone else's body_? Someone whom Neldor recognized? And why was the name so darned familiar?

"Glorfindel," said Neldor again, softly, almost pleadingly.

Glorfindel, Glorfindel, Glorfindel…… The gears in Ellie's already overwhelmed brain creaked and groaned into action, trying to find a connection somewhere. A lesser mind might have given out and imploded from the strain, but Ellie's was no ordinary cerebrum. It was a _botanist's_ brain, honed by years of memorizing obscenely long, complicated Latin names and well used to trapping and hoarding any helpless bit of information that so happened to drift by.

And so, as expected, she remembered. She remembered where she had first come across the name in a book, and she remembered what sort of person this Glorfindel was supposed to be. It all added up- the lustrous golden hair, the rock-hard abs, the inexplicable if vague feeling of having died recently…And in that context, she knew what, and where Mithlond was too. Bits and pieces of related information started popping up throughout her brain.

"This is…_Arda_?" asked Ellie weakly, pointing downwards at the ground. Neldor beamed.

"And I," continued Ellie hoarsely, indicating herself. "Am _Edhel_?" Neldor looked slightly puzzled at this, but nodded enthusiastically. "Edhel," he confirmed.

There was no doubt about it.

The rational, scientific part of her mind surrendered and fled screaming into some remote corner of her cranium.

"I'm in a _book_ universe?" Ellie murmured incredulously. "I'm an elf? I'm _Glorfindel_?" This could not be happening; it was not possible, as far as modern science was concerned. She (or rather he whose body she was currently inhabiting and who was probably really, really upset at the moment) was a mighty hero who had perished in the deed of slaying a big ugly fiery monster and sent back to the living world by the Powers That Be to carry out some Very Important Tasks (which she wasn't really sure of, but she supposed the Powers That Be had to have an agenda). She was, as far as she knew, stuck in Tolkien-Fantasyland, with no way of returning to her beloved plant tissue cultures and orchid garden. Heck, she probably would never be able to wear a dress again. Ellie buried her face in her hands and wept.

A light touch at her shoulder made her look up. While she had been engrossed in her thoughts, Neldor had gotten up and returned with a mug of something hot and steaming in his hands. He held it out to her, his face full of gentle concern. Ellie flung her arms around the startled healer's waist, almost upsetting the liquid, and sobbed into his tunic.

---

Notes:

(1)Duilin, chieftain of the House of the Swallow, a house of archers. Their symbol was a fan of _purple_ feathers. (acc. to Wikipedia)

(2)What Sauron called himself when he presented himself to the Elves in his fair form. And neither Elrond nor Gil-galad liked him at all, to his great disappointment.

(3)Why 144? Because the Eldar like multiples of twelve. Really. And 144 is the biggest number they count to.

T.B.C: In the next chapter(s), Elrond is delayed. Also, what happens when Ellie is given a mirror? Neldor continues to try and jog "Glorfindel" 's memory. Ellie also gets some unwanted attention.


	4. Observations and Experiments

Disclaimer: I came (to the bookshop), I read (Tolkien), I wrote (fanfiction). That is all. Never owned anything, never will either, to my undying regret.

Gasping from want of air, Neldor gingerly pried away the vice-like grip around his waist and tucked the still sobbing elf back into (the still somewhat damp) bed. Then he carefully fed Glorfindel the warm broth he'd brought, and murmured soothing words until the elf had calmed and fallen asleep. Neldor's gentle, benevolent smile immediately relaxed into a scowl.

Neldor quietly slipped out of the room, shut the door, and made his way to the adjoining study. Settling down in front of his desk, he hauled a massive book from a shelf, picked out a quill, and began to write on an empty page.

"_Case 8,005,568, Glorfindel of Gondolin," _he wrote. _"Height: six foot five, weight: too heavy, age: 5,631, discounting years spent dead. Occupation: none; ex –Balrog-Slayer. Physically fit; no injuries barring a large bruise on left temple from blunt-force trauma, administered for therapeutic purposes." _Neldor chewed reflectively on the tip of his quill before continuing. _"Patient appears to be in state of high mental confusion, possibly from psychological trauma of resurrection. Patient speaks in a strange, guttural language, calls himself 'Elli', and seemed devastated upon discovering himself to be an elf. The physician thereby concludes that said patient is deluded and thinks himself a dwarf." _

Neldor set down the pitifully mangled quill and gazed thoughtfully at his entry. The assumed-identity thing was somewhat of an unexpected setback, but it mattered little. He was confident of his abilities (or, as his rivals would say, his stunning repertoire of unorthodox methods).

By the end of the week, Glorfindel would remember every single wretched detail of his past life.

Neldor smiled.

---

After riding briskly away from Mithlond for some miles, the Havens' official courier dismounted on top of a hill overlooking the sea. The elf spent some time searching for the perfect spot, and found it under a blossoming cherry tree. Rummaging in his pack, he shook out a pink and white checkered picnic cloth and proceeded to have a most enjoyable afternoon lunching and dozing in the sunshine while his horse rolled about in the grass.

"This is very important," his dispatcher had said, handing him three letters and a large picnic basket. "Take all the time you want. Have a holiday on the way. Enjoy yourself." His was the best job in Arda, decided the elf, as he downed another mouthful of wine.

--

"I have _rights!_" roared the dark-haired elf (or rather, spirit that looked vaguely like a dark-haired elf) chained (figuratively) to the wall in Mandos' sparkly-new state-of-the-art laboratory (courtesy of Aulë). "I _demand_ fair treatment!"

"Oh be quiet, Fëanor," replied Mandos, quite unaffected, as he prepared for his experiment. "You ceased having rights ever since that mess at Aqualondë, which, if I may remind you, filled my halls to bursting and wrecked havoc with the paperwork. And if this works you shall have a new body to live in, albeit temporarily, which is a really good deal considering your history."

"I do not want _his_ body!" spat Fëanor, glaring daggers at Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2, who was trembling violently as he lay bound on the table.

"You do not have a choice," pointed out the Vala.

Fëanor changed tactics. "But that poor elf on the table has done _nothing _to deserve this treatment, my lord," he whined. "It is most unjust. Think of his feelings!" Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2 squeaked faintly in agreement.

"Shut up," suggested Mandos.

Fëanor lost his temper. "Eöl and Maeglin do not have to undergo this…this torment! They were the cause of this chaos, not I!"

"They have…other uses," replied the Vala dismissively. He raised his hands, and there was a dramatic flash of lightning and choking smoke of the kind to be found in the basement of Angband.

When the smoke cleared, the Spirit of Fire had disappeared.

"Is that you, Fëanor?" asked Mandos of the figure on the table.

"Um…n-no?" stuttered Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2. He had not stopped shaking, and a dark stain was spreading on the front of his leggings. _No?_ Mandos frowned, wrinkling his nose at the stench of ammonia. Where was Fëanor then?

An angry hiss claimed Mandos' attention. He looked down to see Vaire's pet cat staring balefully up at him with Fëanor's eyes.

"Oh, _no_."


	5. Settling In

Disclaimer: Judging from the sorry state of my finances, I own nothing. Except of course, for the wretched beings known as Ellie and Neldor, who, between them, are threatening to eat me out of house and home.

Ellie woke up. She seemed to be doing a lot of that these days. It appeared to be early morning, with the first rays of sunlight filtering in through the eastern windows.

She looked about her and saw the washstand by one of the windows. She swung her powerful, muscular legs over the edge of the bed and strode to it. A suspiciously familiar basin was set on the washstand, a jug filled with lukewarm water by its side. Ellie filled the basin and began to splash her face, noting with morbid fascination as she did so that the ornamentation on the basin matched that of the jug, which in turn matched perfectly the carvings on the washstand _and _the pillars of the room. Elves liked to make things in sets, maybe? She was just searching for something to use as a face towel when the door swung open.

An elf-maid came in, bearing a tray that wafted delicious smells of fresh bread and honey. Probably just your average elleth, no doubt, but lovely enough to make Miss Universe look like a moldy pancake. Their eyes met.

Ellie beamed in what she hoped was a friendly manner, quite pleased at the sight of another female soul (and food) at long last.

She had, however, for the moment forgotten that she was Glorfindel the Golden-haired, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and worshipped by every maiden west of the Blue Mountains. She also did not know that the serving-maid, a young impressionable elleth barely into her first century, had, like all young impressionable females, her own ideals of romantic interests, and that she, in the studly form of the Balrog-Slayer, fulfilled every single one of them to the minutest detail.

Gloriously backlit by the rising sun, golden tresses aflame with the light of dawn, water droplets glistening on mane and face like a thousand adamants, Ellie-Glorfindel represented the epitome of male Elvish beauty. And when he (she) smiled that heart-stopping smile, the elleth was overcome.

Ellie looked on in bewilderment as the elleth shuddered and slumped unconscious onto the floor with a long, lovesick sigh.

"Oh dear," said Ellie (in truth expressing more regret over the upset tray than the fallen maiden). She wondered if she should attempt to revive the maiden (though really, she was only good at reviving half-dead vegetation). She was about to approach her when Neldor came hurrying in through the open door, very nearly tripping over the elleth in the process.

Regaining his balance, Neldor stared at the body on the floor. He lifted his gaze and regarded Ellie-Glorfindel, still dramatically haloed by the sunrise. He dropped his eyes back to the elleth and delicately prodded her back with a velvet-shod foot. He looked up again at Ellie and proceeded to convey his disapproval, disgust, and complete annoyance in one hard glare.

"I didn't do anything, honest!" declared Ellie. The healer sniffed, slung the elleth over his shoulder, and stalked out of the room. The door shut, and Ellie heard a key turn in the lock.

"Well!" exclaimed Ellie, miffed at being locked in like a lunatic in a cell. "How _rude._ Not so much as a hello. And all that lovely breakfast wasted, too."

As she looked regretfully at the mess on the floor (which still looked remarkably appetizing given its slightly splattered state) she became acutely aware of an overpowering urge to micturate (1). A hasty rummaging about the room revealed a brass vessel discreetly hidden beneath the bed. Ellie got it out and studied it curiously. It was extraordinarily beautiful, every square inch of it covered in exquisitely detailed floral motifs, and a sweet fragrance emanated from a cleverly designed compartment on the lid. For a moment Ellie paused, wondering if this was indeed, as it appeared to be, a chamberpot. As far as she knew, vessels expressly made for the purpose of waste elimination were not also meant to function as works of art.

Her protesting bladder indicated that it might be more convenient for her to continue her musings _after _it had been emptied. She removed the lid of the vessel, and considered it with great interest. Unfamiliar with the workings of the complex hydraulics that constituted the new part of her anatomy, she was loath to carry out her business in the manner of the male gender, lest she miss her mark and stain the lovely carpet. Yet, she doubted that doing it the way she was used to would be practical, or even feasible. Thus her dilemma: To Squat or Not to Squat, that was the question.

--

Neldor put on his best scowl as he stomped (as much as an elf can stomp) down the corridor to the maiden's quarters, hoping it would be sufficient to ward off any questioning glances. Curse the elf's beauty! He was dangerous, that one, and best kept under lock and key. Neldor was glad that Círdan had decided to keep Glorfindel's return quiet for the time being – he could well imagine his beloved infirmary swarming with excited, squealing ellith jostling for a sight of the famous hero. He would have trouble enough getting this particular one to keep her mouth shut.

He reached the rooms which the elleth shared with her family, and deposited the maiden, still blissfully comatose, with her mother. "She has been having strange hallucinations about handsome elf-lords," he informed the older elleth, who blinked at him in confusion. "Ignore her and tell her not to eat any more strange mushrooms."

_How terribly annoying_, thought Neldor as he stormed bad-temperedly to the kitchens to prepare another breakfast tray for his charge. He would just have to care for Glorfindel completely himself.

---

_How hard can this be, really? _wondered Ellie as she gazed at the brass vessel, its finely ornamented mouth so open and inviting. She lifted her nightshirt and took careful aim. She missed by quite a wide angle, hitting instead a patch of (thankfully) dark-colored carpet. The vessel remained pristine and conspicuously empty. Alarmed, she hurriedly swung left, but still only succeeded in ruining yet another spot of carpet. Quite ready to scream, Ellie shifted to the right again. Still, defying her will (and to her mind, several laws of physics), it stubbornly refused to go where she directed it. _Hold and desist, _Ellie told herself, in a valiant endeavor not to create a swampland out of the carpet fibers. Relieving oneself shouldn't be so _difficult!_ She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the imminent bursting of the floodgates, and attempted to recall as much as she possibly could about male toilet habits. Really, the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. A mind of a particularly stubborn mule, to be exact. Now, with a mule one could, through the use of physical force, take it in hand… Hands! That was it! Perhaps a little manual control would do the trick. It worked, and Ellie let out a whoop of jubilation as the fruit of her labors manifested in a beautiful trajectory and landed neatly into the chamberpot.

--

Neldor returned to the room, precariously balancing a well-laden breakfast tray in one hand and clasping an assortment of clothing and articles of toilet in the other. Glorfindel seemed strangely smug, but Neldor dismissed it, putting it down to the knockout success of the earlier peacock display. He set the tray down and waved a hand towards it, indicating that the elf-lord should eat. Glorfindel flashed him a dazzling smile and complied.

Neldor watched in mild horror as Glorfindel devoured the contents of the tray with the speed and table manners of a ravenous warg. Didn't they feed him at all back in Valinor? He averted his eyes to the much more agreeable view out the window and waited with a long-suffering air for his charge to finish his meal.

Eventually the elf polished up the last few scraps from the tray and sat back, contentedly sated. Neldor took the tray from him and set it aside. Then he began showing Glorfindel the various objects he had brought, miming as he went along.

Glorfindel smiled and even looked a little excited at the finely brocaded tunic, but seemed wholly baffled by Neldor's attempts to explain the uses of a collection of twelve vials and jars containing various potions and creams (the very bare minimum every elf ought to have).

After some time, Neldor gave up and put the toiletries away. He pinched one edge of Glorfindel's nightshirt between finger and thumb, gave it a little tug, and thrust the garments he had brought into his arms. Then he waved in the direction of the door and made a backwards motion, indicating that he would be back for the elf-lord later. Glorfindel nodded slowly in comprehension (ah, the poor fellow was not _too_ far gone then), and Neldor turned to leave.

Today would be another day of observation. _Tomorrow_, thought Neldor happily, rubbing his palms together in anticipation. Tomorrow would see the beginning of _treatment_.

(1) micturate: to urinate


	6. Wait and See

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Probably a good thing, as this is probably making the Professor turn in his grave.

--

"Yes, Fëanor," sighed Mandos. "This is absolutely necessary. Or do you wish to remain a cat for the rest of eternity?"

The feline he was strapping down gave him an insulted glare and tried yet again to bite him. The cat had never liked Mandos; with the arrival of the Spirit of Fire it was the most vicious thing on four legs since Carcharoth.

Mandos secured the last strap and rubbed his temple gingerly. It had been a trying day, to say the least. First he had spent the better part of the morning hiding the cat from his wife ("Have you seen Miuco (1), Námo?" "No dear, he's probably off catching birds again."). Then Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2 had somehow escaped from the laboratory and gone around shrieking about "cruel, cruel experiments" and "that insane Vala". Luckily, no-one had paid much attention, and Mandos was able to mumble something about his "traumatic death" and "not enough time spent in the Halls, sorry, will take him back now."

Back on the laboratory table, the wretched creature was watching the proceedings with a look of sheer terror on his face. Now, seeing that Mandos was about to begin the next stage of the procedure, he whimpered and tried to shrink away.

Mandos ignored him. He inspected the room to ensure it was free of any other sentient life-form, chased out a nosy moth, wiped out a spot of mold just to be on the safe side, and finally returned to his place in front of the cat and elf. Never able to resist a little drama (even when faced with such a small audience), he theatrically cracked his knuckles and stretched. Then he focused.

---

Ellie sank back on the soft bed with a happy sigh. The past few hours had been heavenly. Neldor (who she assumed was now her official babysitter. But not that she minded) had taken her to a beautiful little garden, where she'd spent a most exciting afternoon attempting to classify the indigenous flora of Middle Earth (which were, for the most part, quite similar to those back home). Then Neldor, ever attentive, had brought her some more of that wonderful Elvish food. It almost made up for being male, really.

With that last thought, Ellie turned pensive. Would she be stuck in this body for the rest of eternity (here it must be noted that most humans have no idea what eternity really _means_. We often say "this paint takes forever to dry!", not realizing that if you said that to an elf he'd probably reply, in all seriousness, "no, it takes about a century and a half")?

And where _was _the real Glorfindel?

Back in her old body, perhaps? Ellie giggled to herself. He wouldn't like that very much now, would he? Then again, there probably wasn't much of her body _left_ to be in. She knew she'd died (though there hadn't been any tunnels with light at the ends of them, just a loud bang and searing heat, and then…nothing). Somehow, Ellie doubted that the real Glorfindel would appreciate waking up charred for the second time in a row. Or would he be stranded in Valinor? Were the Valar angry at her for messing up their plans? Ellie winced at the thought and decided that she would put off sailing west (if she remained as Glorfindel) for a long, long while.

_We'll see how it goes,_ Ellie told herself, fluffing out her pillow and laying herself down. _No point worrying about that now, right?_

---

It is the general opinion that people suffering from some form of amnesia or other should be treated gently and patiently, to calm them and ease the road to recovery, all the more so if the amnesia was caused by a traumatic event. Even medical practitioners, more or less, also subscribe to this view, though they _do_ have an inclination to carry out all sorts of distressing tests and pump the patients full of chemicals (but they can hardly be blamed. We all get carried away sometimes when we're having fun).

Neldor however, regarded this school of thought as being highly misguided. He preferred a more... _physical_ approach. One, in fact, that might possibly involve his favorite cudgel (weapon of choice for annoyed healers in the field dealing with screaming patients and the odd orc or two) or some similar medical instrument. Or perhaps even one of those extremely numerous cod left all over the place by careless fishermen. Anything, in short, that was blunt and heavy and caused major reorganization of brain tissue when applied (We are, indeed, beginning to see a pattern here.)

You see, Neldor had recently hypothesized that memory loss was caused by bits of brain not being where they should, and that a good hard whack would somehow scuttle them back to their proper places and teach them to behave (much like how you and I fix malfunctioning electronic devices). Unfortunately Neldor had never been able to test this, as elves seldom got memory loss, and those that did usually had concerned family members who sent them to Elrond anyway. ( In fact one of the reasons why Neldor was so successful as a healer was that all his patients were simply too afraid of his unconventional methods to want to remain in his care for long, and thus _willed _themselves back to good health.)

All that remained was to apply this controversial new technique to the case of the golden-haired Balrog-Slayer.

This time, there was no smoke, just a surge of static electricity and a rather disappointing _floop. _Mandos would have liked it to have been a little more spectacular (after all, he _was _the Doomsman of the Valar, and had to live up to his reputation), but, considering the earlier disaster, had decided he couldn't afford the slightest lapse in concentration.

He eyed his two test subjects critically. Miuco the cat lay limply in his bonds, mewing pathetically – a good sign, as Fëanor would sooner join Morgoth in the Void than sound pathetic. Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2, however, was out cold. The trauma of another fëa entering the body? Mandos did not know. It disturbed him how it was becoming very quickly apparent how he did not know a great many things.

He would have to wait and see, then.

---

Ellie rose long before dawn, troubled by strange dreams of stout wooden sticks. Unable to return to sleep, she strode to one of the large windows and sat on the low, wide windowsill. For a while she gazed out at the star-strewn night, and felt a strange urge to burst into song. _I'm becoming Elvish_, she mused, then shook her head. _No, that's not right- I am an elf, if only in body. _She tucked one leg beneath her and began to idly swing the other. _I wonder what they think has happened to Glorfindel? And how long more before they find out he's actually not him? _

If something didn't happen for her to leave Glorfindel's body soon, would she have to take over Glorfindel's duties? She remembered now, quite clearly, that it involved a horse with jingly reins, several evil black things and a half-dead Halfling carrying the jewelry equivalent of a WMD. Ellie couldn't see herself pulling _that_ off by any stretch of the imagination. And wasn't there something about leading an army off to some war in the north somewhere? The prospect frightened her -- the closest thing to a weapon she had ever handled was probably a scalpel, and the only things she had ever purposefully killed had been several large cockroaches. But if she didn't … it did not bear thinking.

Ellie felt completely helpless. There was absolutely nothing she could do about her current situation. She couldn't speak Elvish, for one thing (surely that would have been a hint to Neldor that Glorfindel wasn't quite right?), and thus couldn't tell anyone of her predicament, and could find out nothing of her current situation. There were so many questions she had to ask, and no way of asking them

She sighed, laying her head back against the cool stone. Part of her prayed that the real Glorfindel would return soon to make things right again. _But if he returns,_ she reflected, _where will you go? _

---

Neldor entered the room with a breakfast tray in his arms, and felt mildly surprised when a cursory glance failed to locate his charge. Looking around more carefully, he found the Balrog-Slayer, half-hidden by a wall, sitting on the windowsill with his face turned towards the dawn. He appeared too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that Neldor had entered the room.

_What is it with him and sunrises,_ wondered Neldor, dropping his professional expression of cheerful optimism in favor of an irritated scowl. _Ah, I am a fool to leave him in a room where he can be seen in plain view; the ellith will spot him! And we know what trouble that will be … _He made a mental note to have the elf-lord moved as soon as possible.

With that thought, he turned to call to Glorfindel. To his surprise, before he could do so, the elf turned and flashed him such a radiant, sincere smile, that for the briefest of moments the healer felt the faintest stirrings of remorse for what he was about to do to the unsuspecting elf-lord. Burying the twinges of guilt below the growing feeling of anticipation, Neldor swiftly assumed an expression of kindly concern (meticulously copied from Elrond centuries before) and, returning the smile, beckoned Glorfindel to his breakfast, ensuring his back remained out of sight all the while.

Neldor waited patiently till Glorfindel's attention was completely occupied by his food. Then, slowly, his fingers began to reach into the back of his tunic.

---

Ellie's worries were smothered completely by the glorious aroma that pervaded her nostrils as she approached the food tray. Not as ravenous now, she took the time to savor every bit of her breakfast, which consisted of delightfully light, flaky pastries and a honey-sweet fruit drink of some kind.

She was well onto her fourth pastry when a soft rustle of fabric caught her attention. It wasn't the sound clothes produced when people were walking around- it was an _ominous _rustle, and Ellie, somehow, _knew_ something was up. She stopped her chewing and listened, and time seemed to slow. A nearly imperceptible change in the air currents, an almost inaudible _whoosh_ of something slicing through the air…

Without thought, quick as lightning, she spun round, her arm lashing out to intercept something hard and wooden mid-blow. Blinking in surprise, she met the sight of Neldor clutching one end of a short club, staring at her in complete astonishment. Her fist was closed firmly on the other end, which had already begun to crack a little under her grip. Was the elf mad? He had tried to kill her! And how on earth had she moved so fast?

They stayed awkwardly frozen in place, Ellie still reeling from the shock of having miraculously prevented a fatal (or so she thought) blow to her head, and Neldor petrified with an expression that looked very much like panic. As Ellie tried how best to react, the door opened.

Momentarily distracted, Ellie loosened her grip. Neldor instantly took advantage of the situation to yank it away, but it was too late. A deep-throated exclamation issued from behind the door, and a silver-haired, bearded man strode imperiously into the room, firing angry questions at the healer.

_No, not a man, _decided Ellie, noting the fine, ageless features. _An elf…with a beard? Silver hair, beard, Mithlond…Círdan? _Behind her, Neldor gave a strangled squeak, and began to speak very rapidly, his tone placating. He came around to the front of her with his club, smiled shakily, and waved it, then, before she had time to react, swiftly and smartly rapped her on the knee.

"Ow!" cried Ellie as her lower leg jerked upwards. Neldor grinned a little more confidently, and continued speaking, making broad circular movements with his arms. The elf she thought might be Círdan seemed unimpressed.

So Neldor was telling Círdan that he had been _testing her_ _reflexes _using a club that could've brained a rhinoceros?

"Hey, look, you can't get away with trying to _kill_ me!" thundered Ellie, springing to her feet and pointing an accusing finger at the healer. Now quite recovered from her shock, she had to battle an almost irresistible urge to throttlethe damned elf. Neldor, cowed, wisely took a step back.

The bearded elf stepped between them, speaking gently to Ellie. "He did, I swear!" insisted Ellie, thinking he was defending the healer. "Tried to hit me on the back of the head, he did!" Círdan looked at her curiously for a moment, then turned and barked a few sharp orders to Neldor before sweeping majestically out of the room. Neldor followed bravely, an unreadable expression on his face.

_Great,_ thought Ellie, watching the two elves leave. _The nicest person I've ever met just attempted to kill me._ She sank back into her chair and fumed.

(1) Miuco: cat (Q.) Yes, I know, it's a highly unimaginative name. But so is Kitty.


	7. Complications

Chapter 7- Complications

Neldor's heart filled with trepidation as Círdan turned to face him. The Shipwright might be a little thick at times, but millennia upon millennia of experience meant he had gotten regrettably adept at reading others. Neldor suspected his spur-of-the-moment excuse, while brilliant considering the circumstances, lacked a certain credibility.

"Do you insult my intelligence, healer?" demanded Círdan. "Do you think to fool me?"

Neldor knew better than to lie to the Shipwright. Yet he hesitated.

Unfortunately Círdan proved uncharacteristically sharp this day. "Not _another _of your new remedies?" he exclaimed. "We have spoken of this before."

Neldor remained silent, but could feel his cheeks burning. The Shipwright could make _any_ elf, even one of several thousand summers like Neldor himself, feel like a mere child.

"I have always indulged your … creative streak, healer. When Thingol threw you out and Nargothrond shut its doors on you, I took you in. When you gave Galdor a nervous breakdown I forgave you. When you nearly drugged that sick Númenórean captain to death I interceded on your behalf. And you repay me by inflicting violence upon my guest, and the emissary of the Valar."

Neldor hung his head. "I assure you, lord," he replied, trying to regain his composure. "That I had the best of intentions."

"I doubt that," said Círdan in his usual blunt manner. "Glorfindel is of tremendous importance to us, and we can risk no harm to him." He paused, appearing to be slightly disturbed. "His condition is far worse than I thought. He speaks in an unknown tongue, and there is a strangeness about him that I cannot place."

"I imagine his return from the Halls of Mandos must have jarred his mind," said Neldor eagerly, hoping to regain favor. "I think …"

"Enough, Neldor," interrupted Círdan. "Perhaps it would be best if you allow Elrond to assume full responsibility for this case. Which reminds me, why has there been no word of his coming? The High King's palace is hardly two days' ride away."

Neldor coughed and mumbled something about "unexpected delays".

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" he said, but appeared to accept this. "You may continue caring for Glorfindel, if he will let you near him, but _no more treatments_." He then wandered off, to the healer's immense relief.

_He does not understand, _thought the healer resentfully as he scurried back to his quarters. These fancy lords knew nothing of _innovation._ But he would show them.

- - - - - - - -

Think of "plant people", and your mind invariably conjures up images of placid, 19th century gentlemen pottering about in glasshouses. Or that nice lady at the flower-shop. Perhaps even the shy, pretty girl at the plant nursery. The point is that people who are very fond of plants are typically considered to be quite like them in temperament.

Ellie, of course, was a "plant person", and some would say she probably had the personality of a vegetable, but let us be kind, and merely say that she had the emotional stability of an inanimate object(except of course, when it came to cockroaches -- hell hath no fury like a woman facing vermin) .

So it was that Ellie felt no small surprise that the intensity of the rage welling up within her. It _surged_ through her veins, this feeling of righteous indignation. She (or rather, Glorfindel) , a respectable elf and hero of the First Age, had been assailed with a club. A _club_, the most primitive of weapons. He'd not even had the courtesy or good sense to use a proper blade. _Wait, what?_ _Now where had that come from, _wondered Ellie, frankly appalled at her own thoughts.

Ellie was still wondering when and why exactly her thoughts had seemingly gone out of control, when Neldor returned, alone, looking twice as friendly as usual. He flashed his usual bright smile, but it failed to have its customary effect. He bowed slightly to Ellie, and said something that sounded only very vaguely apologetic. _That was it? Call that an apology?_ Ellie felt herself seething dangerously, like a vat of hot liquid about to come very violently to the boil.

"I can't believe Círdan let you off the hook," she said quietly, only the slightest quaver in her voice betraying that she would very much like to smash Neldor's face into an unrecognizable pulp, preferably with his own cudgel. "Do you honestly think you can get away with trying to kill me?"

Neldor tilted his head, looking puzzled. There it was again-- that innocent, wide-eyed expression that seemed to suggest that no, he hadn't been trying to clobber Ellie into oblivion, he was just swinging it for a bit of fun there, it was all an accident … Ellie, still seeing a great deal of red, didn't buy it for a moment. She briefly wondered if Círdan would mind terribly if she threw his healer off a cliff. She hadn't felt so angry in _centuries_. _Wait, _she thought, catching herself yet again. _Centuries? _

Distracted, she waved her hand dismissively. "Go away." Neldor didn't seem to understand, and even took a step forward, speaking softly.

"Go away!" she repeated, with more vehemence than she meant. Neldor, aggrieved, looked as if he would crumple into tears on the spot. Had she been too harsh? After all, she couldn't be certain of what was going on, due to her inability to communicate. Unlikely, but what if, what if it had all been a misunderstanding? In retrospect, would anyone _dare_ to attempt to murder Glorfindel in the house of the Shipwright? And Neldor, after all, had been amazingly kind to her, if slightly impatient at times. Surely as a healer he wouldn't try to off his own patient? And to top it all off, he looked completely guileless. She couldn't for the life of her decide whether the healer was genuinely repentant, or simply amazingly manipulative.

Her expression must have remained harsh, for Neldor, looking absolutely devastated, bowed again, stiffly, and left. Ellie, feeling not a little guilty, called after him. "Neldor!"

But he was gone. And in his haste, he had left the door open.

Neldor laughed quietly to himself as he disappeared down the corridor, his scheming mind already pleasantly occupied with various machinations involving a certain golden-haired elf.

- - - - - - - -

Mandos held his breath as Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2's eyes fluttered slowly open.

"Well?" he said, as the elf slowly sat up, groaning and clutching his head. "How do you feel?"

"Head hurts," whispered the elf, raising his head slowly and carefully. Mandos noted the new, unholy glint in his eyes. Did it mean success?

Suddenly, the elf gave a sharp cry and looked around him.

"Where- " he began, then clutched his head again. "No, no! Stop talking! Stop! Stop! I beg you, stop!"

Mandos watched, intrigued, as the elf ran wildly around the laboratory, pausing every now and then to hit his head upon the walls. It boded well, and it was time to find out for sure. Standing up to his full height, he boomed, "Be still and hearken to me! Tell me who is speaking to you!" The elf appeared not to hear and continued his mad dash around the room.

Mandos clapped a huge hand on the elf's shoulder, pulling the elf to face him. "Tell me," he commanded. "Who speaks in your mind?"

He smiled in satisfaction as the wretched creature whimpered, "Fëanor."


	8. Of Plots and Prey

Lost. Completely, utterly lost. Ellie stood in the long corridor and scratched absently at the back of her scalp. Perhaps she shouldn't have wandered out of her room. Clearly she'd been meant to stay there – Neldor had always made sure she was securely locked in. But she'd been itching to be out of the room, pleasant and airy though it was, out of the basic human (or Elvish?) need of freedom.

_And where was everybody?_ She'd not seen a single elf since she stepped out of her room. She doubted that the Haven's staff consisted only of Neldor, Cirdan and that poor girl who fainted in her room the other day.

Then she heard it – the slosh of water in a bucket, and the _squeak-eek_ of someone vigorously polishing a marble floor.

Moving hopefully in the direction of the sound, she came upon the very same elf-maiden she had met only a couple of days before, squatting on the floor and enthusiastically rubbing at the pale grey marble with a large cloth.

"Er, hello?"

The maiden squealed and fell backwards, knocking over the bucket.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," muttered Ellie as she offered a hand and pulled the maiden upright. She didn't think she had been_ that_ quiet in her approach. A feeling of dread began to creep up on her as she realized the woman's expression had gone from one of fright to absolute adoration. She'd nearly forgotten about her impressive Balrog-Slayer form.

"Er," she said nervously, dropping the maiden's hand. "Could you tell me how to get back?" She waved in the vague direction of where she thought the infirmary might be. "You know, back?" Her movements got more frantic as the maiden flushed and began to look a little faint. "Don't faint? Please?" The maiden's only response was to hold a wrist weakly to her forehead and sway dangerously on her feet.

Not knowing what else to do, Ellie fled.

- - -

Neldor smiled to himself as he serenely pounded a handful of dried herbs into powder with mortar and pestle. Utterly relaxed, surrounded by the soothing scent of pulverized plant material and the pleasant bubbling of fresh potions over the fire, he lazily wondered if the Balrog-Slayer was wishing himself back in his rooms and under Neldor's reassuring guardianship. The halls of the Shipwright could be a perilous place for a stranger.

Neldor's thoughts were interrupted by the faint patter of running Elven feet and a familiar, annoyingly high voice.

"Uncle, uncle!" A pretty dark head appeared around the door. "You will _not_ believe the goings-on!"

_The dear, empty-headed twit, _thought Neldor dryly. _Over a thousand years old and still as brainless as a goldfish. _Haneth(1) (an ironic name, but his sister had always been somewhat sarcastic) _always_ came to him when she had heard of some new, juicy piece of gossip. And he encouraged her, not because he enjoyed it (quite the contrary), but because he had supposed it useful to have his own informant.

"Niece," he greeted, with that particular, carefully crafted grin of avuncular affection that he reserved especially for Haneth. "It is good to see you. Come in!"

The elleth fairly bounced into the herb-room, looking fit to burst, and plopped herself down beside her uncle. "Oh, the things I have heard!" she squealed happily, jiggling Neldor's arm. Neldor suppressed his irritation with some difficulty, and forced an indulgent smile. _If I had a daughter like this, I would sail West too, _he thought, remembering the barely-veiled looks of relief on his sister and brother-in-law's faces as they boarded the ship. _I only hope she has the news I want. _

"Pray tell," he said, putting away his work and giving his niece his full attention.

Unfortunately, Neldor was forced to endure a full half-hour report on the whitefish crisis in the kitchens and the sudden, mystifying appearance of freckles on some unfortunate maiden. Did the girl ever need to stop for breath?

"… And Miniel met this golden-haired ellon who was very handsome and chivalrous and kind …" Golden-haired? He knew of only one blond fellow in the whole of Círdan's realm. And Miniel, that silly fainting girl. Pricking up his ears, he gestured for Haneth to go on.

"He also spoke strangely," continued Haneth obligingly. "And Miniel thinks it is some kind of archaic language, but of course she would not know; perhaps Lindir will, he is very clever…"

"So, what has become of this elf?" asked Neldor, interrupting his niece before she started extolling the virtues of her beloved (who, in his opinion, was only marginally more intelligent than Haneth herself).

"Miniel has gone to look for him now, and most of the girls with her. She said he seems dreadfully shy, and might have been lost," she replied. "I would have gone along too, just to see if he is as handsome as Miniel says. But I had to tell my dearest uncle first!"

"I am glad," replied Neldor, smiling genuinely this time. _Just as I anticipated,_ he thought smugly.The elf-women of the Havens were noted for their … desperation in the matters of the heart (as unwary male visitors usually found out to their horror or delight). Small wonder, as most of the elf-men were far too preoccupied with ships and the sea to notice something substantially smaller, like an elleth (or a stowaway rat, for that matter). The few who engaged in other pursuits, being a rare and prized commodity, had found themselves rapidly snapped up (with the exception of Neldor, of course, but Neldor decided that a gem like himself was fated to be underappreciated in this seaside town with its simple, saltwater-loving people). He had a very good guess as to the current fate of the dashing Balrog-slayer.

"Miniel also says he is under your care," said his niece, tightening her grip on Neldor's arm and jogging him out of his musings. "Why have you not mentioned him before? Tell me more about this man, uncle!"

Neldor shifted uneasily. "Well, er, patient confidentiality, you know!" He stood up quickly, and put away his herbs. Time to execute his plan. "I have something to attend to, Haneth -- healer's business—and I must go now." And with that, he swept like a whirlwind out of the room, very nearly tripping on a flagstone in his hurry.

- - -

Ellie panicked. She'd run blindly away from that besotted girl, only to run into _more_ elf-women. They'd each given her that sly, calculating, _predatory_ look that terrified her out of her wits and caused her to flee in the other direction. A part of her told her it was silly to run, that these graceful, beautiful people probably meant her no harm, but what she decided was Glorfindel's pre-programmed initiuition informed her that these lovely ladies could just have something more _sinister_ in their agendas, and she wanted nothing more than to get as far away from _them_ as she possibly could. She could hear their light, melodious laughter not far behind, and wagered they'd done this before. Heavens, who would have thought the mere sight of a good-looking fellow would cause a group of civilized women to behave like a pack of starving hyenas?

She dashed madly through a narrow corridor, towards the light and a glimpse of greenery, hoping to get out in the open. As luck would have it, she found herself trapped within a walled garden. Miserably, she watched with an impending sense of doom as the first of the ellith strolled leisurely into the garden, having obviously taken a shortcut. More followed, smiling their sweet, shy smiles – three, five, _ten._ Close to hysterics, she looked wildly about for an escape route. Not even a tree, only disappointingly short flowering shrubs and the grey, stone wall. The wall! It didn't seem unduly high, only a little taller than her shoulders. Glorfindel could scale it. He _had_ to. Taking a deep breath, Ellie retraced her steps and broke into a headlong run. A leap, a half-conscious execution of an Elven gymnastic feat, and she was up and over the wall, leaving the feminine cries of surprise and dismay far, far behind.

- - -

Thinking ahead was something Mandos had never been terribly good at. It came with being the Doomsman of the Valar – what could you plan after someone's doom, anyway? Except, of course, for where the spirits of the dead should be kept, but the assorted Maia assigned to the Halls saw to these trivial matters. Now he had a problem on his hands. Fëanor, someone not supposed to be released from the Halls till the ending of the world, was currently re-embodied (well, sort of), and therefore eligible for release. Manwë, once he had heard of this, would probably explode. Mandos winced and surveyed his options. He could probably keep Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2 in the Halls for awhile, citing the wretched thing's psychological problems as a valid reason, while he tried to figure out a way to extract Fëanor (which he frankly had no idea how). Of course, the simplest way would be to get the elf killed again. But being a Vala and supposed upholder of morality meant conforming to certain rules, which, since he greatly valued his current occupation, he had no notion of circumventing.

He returned to his observation of the hapless elf (ah, he had Aulë to thank for those helpful one-way mirrors), whose crying and whimpering had slowly given way to a dark brooding and occasional bursts of angry, rapid speech. All very eerily familiar. Mandos began to wish he had experimented on Maeglin instead. For now, he decided that he needed a stronger cell.

- - -

Ellie _loved_ this body. Strong, agile, athletic—everything her own hadn't been. She couldn't help laughing; for the joy of having left those scary women behind; for the pleasure of stretching these wonderful, supple legs in such glorious exercise; for the sensation of long, golden locks flying in the salt-tinged breeze. She sprinted through gardens, lawns, verandas (startling not a few elves peacefully having their afternoon tea) and danced on top of balustrades, for the sheer delight of it. Finally, here was something she liked better than plants – the intoxicating rush of adrenaline through her blood, and the exhilarating feeling of freedom under the wide, open sky.

She spotted yet another wall in her path, made of white stone, and higher than the one she had just scaled. Impulsively, childishly, she decided to see if she could leap it. Besides, it would put more distance between her and _them_. With a flying bound she vaulted easily over the wall and landed on her feet in a half-crouch. Triumphantly she straightened up—and found herself locked in the gaze of a pair of stormy grey eyes.

Those incredible eyes were set in an incredibly handsome, sculpted face, framed by incredibly beautiful, flowing silver hair, set atop an incredibly muscular, _bare_ torso covered in a sheen of perspiration. Ellie gulped.

The man's look of mild astonishment turned to one of impatience, and with some amount of guilt Ellie realized that he must have been speaking to her. Not that she could understand, anyway. As she wracked her stunned brain for an appropriate response, the man folded his arms crossly, and Ellie noticed he was holding a large hammer. Glancing about, she discovered herself in a shipyard, where a group of twenty or so men seemed to be working on some kind of watercraft. _Círdan's elves_, she thought dazedly. They were all possessed of a kind of silver beauty that would've put Neldor (whom she'd thought was the most good-looking male she'd ever seen till this moment) to shame. And heaven help her, they were _all_ stripped to the waist. _And_ staring at her. Ellie could feel heat rising to her cheeks. Determined to save herself further embarrassment, she hastily vaulted back over the wall, ignoring the shouts of confusion behind her.

- - -

"Where _is_ he?" muttered Neldor to himself. He had been wandering the halls and gardens for quite some time now, without any luck. The ellith too, seemed to have lost the scent, and were now milling around, looking quite forlorn. Suddenly a flash of gold caught his attention. _Glorfindel!_ An exclamation from an overhead balcony told him that the ellith had seen him, too. The hunt was on.

Huffing a little, cursing the frivolousness of female youth, and berating himself for not having exercised since the end of the First Age, Neldor followed as best as he could, through the numerous balconies and verandas of the West Wing. They would probably try to corner Glorfindel on one of the higher balconies, he reasoned, where they ended in a sheer cliff-drop rather than led to another part of the building. This was exactly what had happened to the visitor from Lórinand (2) not long ago. The poor elf, in his desperation, had bounded up a nearby tree and refused to come down until Círdan himself came to his aid. He sailed shortly afterwards. Precisely the kind of harrowing experience that would considerably reduce Glorfindel's animosity towards Neldor himself, _if_ he could only make a timely rescue.

- - -

The sun beat down heavily, its heat finally stirring the courier from his deep slumber. Yawning, he slowly crawled out of his bedroll and breakfasted heartily on fine foods (Neldor had been uncharacteristically generous). Then he ambled to the little meadow where he had left his mount and spent the ensuing hour and a half coaxing the very reluctant horse to come away from the sweet grass. Eventually he managed to clamber on (but not before discovering his distended abdomen was now somewhat of a hindrance to any physical activity), and the pair set off at a leisurely trot towards Minas-en-Elenath(3), Gil-galad's stronghold by the mountains.

Ellie wondered what she'd ever done to warrant such mistreatment from the divine powers. She'd been a well-behaved, low-profile botanist in the employment of the National Parks Services, living out her days quietly and peacefully and harming no living thing (except cockroaches and the occasional plague of aphids). Now she was stuck in a dead hero's body, and cornered by a bevy of beauties (far greater in number than in the beginning; it seemed her running about had attracted a great deal of unwanted attention) on a high balcony. Life surely couldn't get any more absurd.

"Um, ladies?" she stammered, scrunching up her face into what she hoped was an ugly frown. "I'd much appreciate it if you … back away. Look, I'm not who you think I am, alright? Or even _what_ you think I am." Unfortunately the women didn't seem to take the hint, and giggled lightly to themselves, coyly batting their eyelids. Ellie decided to take more drastic action. "Go!" she growled, waving her arms in what she hoped was an imperiously dismissive gesture. The maids twittered, puzzled, but otherwise seemed unfazed A few of them latched onto her arm, murmuring soft questions, and Ellie couldn't get rid of them, short of violently flinging them off. Ellie was getting desperate. Yet, at this critical moment, Ellie's brain perversely refused to come up with an escape strategy, preferring instead to dwell on unhelpful subjects such as the depressing similarity between her situation and that of a deer surrounded by a pack of wolves, and whether Glorfindel had a wife.

Just as she was dimly contemplating the thirty-foot drop to the ground, a very welcome voice, bristling with irritation, resounded through the garden. _Neldor, _Ellie heaved a sigh of relief. Almost reflexively the maids drew back as the healer came marching towards Ellie, muttering angrily; he said something in a firm tone which appeared to mollify them. Ellie looked on in bemusement as understanding dawned on the women's faces, and one or two even shot her pitying glances. What had he told them? But she had no time to ponder, for Neldor, shaking his head, grabbed Ellie by the shoulder and began to steer her through the little crowd.

_Maybe I've wronged him after all, _thought Ellie, pointedly ignoring the numerous scented handkerchiefs that the suddenly butter-fingered maidens dropped on her path. He had come for her, even after all the hostility she'd shown him. "Thank you," she said, pouring all her gratefulness into the two words. Neldor beamed, understanding, and led her back into the maze of sea-grey corridors.

- - -

(1) Haneth (S.): Intelligent female. Does _not_ accurately describe Neldor's niece.

(2) Lórinand : Old name for Lothlórien.

(3) Minas-en-Elenath: Tower under the stars, my name for Gil-galad's fortress. Círdan, however, persists in calling it a "palace".

Many thanks to the Merin Essi ar Quenteli website for their Elvish translations, and to the angels of GoI for their wonderful beta-work.


	9. And It All Goes Downhill From Here

Chapter 9

Neldor whistled cheerfully to himself. The sun shone brilliantly in the sky, but not too brightly; Glorfindel had been moved out of the infirmary (and the mobs of ellith with him), birds sang in the trees, there was probably cake for luncheon, and Neldor had just successfully tested his latest invention (which consisted of a long, formidable-looking hollow needle, a cylindrical tube, and a piston) on some unfortunate sailor. And to top it all off, Neldor had a Plan. An elegantly simple Plan, which, Neldor thought, had a great chance of success, and would bring Glorfindel's memory back in no time at all. All Neldor needed to do was to look up some specific details, which could almost certainly be found without too much trouble. Smiling benevolently at a few terrified children, Neldor crossed the courtyard and entered the city's modest library.

Elrond did not like puzzles (because Gil-galad and his crew of generally incompetent advisors provided him with far too many to solve), and was mildly irked to find one before him now, in the form of a suspiciously contented-looking messenger from the Havens. Too tidy; too sleek, too _rested._ Couriers usually came hurtling in as if all Morgoth's dragons were hot on their heels, and more often than not resembled something Gil-galad's hound (who had a delicate digestive system) had regurgitated. They did _not_, as a rule, amble leisurely in, smiling, and say "I bring an urgent message from Círdan." Nevertheless Elrond put aside his suspicions and accepted the two envelopes, one addressed to himself and the other to the High King, before dismissing the messenger.

It was becoming quite clear to Mandos that he desperately needed help, preferably unquestioning, from one of the fellow Valar. Aulë had staunchly refused to assist Mandos any further, insisted he had "quite enough" of having to build dubious structures for Mandos, who, in his opinion (which, at the time had been very strongly expressed) should learn to "take care of his own problems", and if Mandos would excuse him, he needed to attend to the metaphysical structure of Middle Earth right now. So Mandos could only watch gloomily as Random-Newly Re-embodied Elf #2 wandered around giving motivational speeches to the dead. Mandos made a mental note to make some large-scale improvements as soon as the opportunity presented itself (his halls were no barrier to flesh, and it was all he could do to keep the elf from wandering _out_ of Mandos, much less imprison him in a cell).

"You should seek assistance from the others," said Vaire calmly from her loom. She looked closely at her current tapestry. "All is not well across the Sea."

"I know that," Mandos replied irritably. It irked him that Vaire seemed not to feel the least bit guilty, but placed all the blame on him.

"Have you tried speaking to Irmo?"

Irmo, Lord of Dreams. Why hadn't Mandos thought of him before? Not that he could solve the problem at hand, but it would certainly help to have a form of over-sea communication. Yes, it might be worth a try.

"No," he said to Vaire. "But I will."

Elrond entered the study and bowed. "My lord."

"Ah, Elrond, you wished to see me?" called out the High King from somewhere behind a mountain of documents. His miniature hound, looking faintly ill as always, peered at Elrond from behind the desk and gave an annoying little yip before being silenced by Elrond's murderous glare.

"There is a message from Cirdan. I received a similar one myself," said Elrond, stepping forward. He held out the letter.

"Oh? What about?" Gil-galad's face gradually emerged as a pile of papers was carefully maneuvered to one side. "Bother the paperwork," he muttered, as he took the envelope from Elrond and opened it.

_If he did not always leave it till the last minute … _Elrond smiled. "Cirdan reports that Glorfindel of Gondolin has returned," he replied, even as the king began scanning the letter's contents, making little noises of exclamation.

"Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower," Gil-galad frowned. "I think I met him once or twice, when I was very small. One of my uncle's favorites, I believe. Dead, re-embodied, and returned to this side of the Sea. Very peculiar."

"Indeed, such a thing is unheard of," mused Elrond. "Perhaps he has some duty to fulfill?"

"Duty? Bah!" scoffed Gil-galad. "I know his kind. Bloodthirsty, those Gondolindrim. Probably came back so he could kill things."

Elrond barely resisted rolling his eyes. Gil-galad bore a long-standing grudge against most Gondolindrim, dead or alive. He figured the reason was probably related to Turgon (or "my crown-stealing uncle", as Gil-galad liked to call him).

"And Cirdan kindly informs me that he will be borrowing you for an unspecified period of time," continued Gil-galad, in a tone that just about bordered on whining. "And without so much as a 'by your leave'! I believe he has quite forgotten the fact that I am High King."

Elrond laughed. "Very typical of him."

"And I do not understand Glorfindel's need for medical attention," continued Gil-galad. "Is he not fresh come from Valinor, a place of rest and healing? Círdan is being damnably vague about the whole thing."

"The Haven's chief physician has attached a report," said Elrond. Privately, he was surprised that the infamous Neldor had managed such a display of professionalism. "It is not entirely clear what ails the elf, but they suspect memory loss brought on by the trauma of re-embodiment. He does not recall anything of his past life, and has even forgotten the Elven-tongues, and speaks instead in a strange language. The physician is of the opinion that Glorfindel thinks himself a dwarf."

The High King looked as if Elrond had just turned into a newt. He gaped for a few moments, seemed to recollect he was the monarch of a modestly sized realm, and shut his mouth firmly.

"Well," he said after a pause. "There seems to be no help for it then. Leave as soon as you can, fix him up, and bring him back."

Elrond inclined his head and made to leave.

"Elrond."

Elrond turned. "Yes, lord?"

"Good luck, and do not, for whatever reason, wander Círdan's halls alone. Remember."

Elrond shuddered at a distant, unpleasant memory. "I remember," he said.

Lindir thanked and dismissed the courier, set down his harp and eagerly took up the envelope. Breaking the seal, he found inside two sheets of paper, held together by an ingeniously designed twist of metal, and a tiny paper sachet attached to the second sheet that seemed to hold some kind of powder. The first sheet, tinted a rose color and giving off a heady scent (which could be very loosely described as "floral") that made his head spin, was instantly recognizable. Dear, sweet Haneth, he thought happily, though he wished, as always, that she would use paper that was not quite so odorous.

"My dearest beloved," the letter began. Twenty or so lines of long-winded endearments followed, making Lindir smile and sigh longingly. The rest of the page was dedicated to the idle gossip circulating about the Havens. He flipped to the other side of the letter.

"Ah, before I forget, Uncle Neldor wishes to ask a favor of you. I know you find him a little frightening, Lindir, but he is a darling, really, and so very kind! He said he needed to get some important business done in Minas-en-Elenath, but did not know anyone he could trust. Then I of course said he could trust you, and he smiled and said I was very clever, why did he not think of that? Then he remembered that you are a very popular musician there, and said he should not take up your precious time, and looked very sad. So of course I said you would only be too glad to help, and I know you will, because you are generous and like to make people happy."

"Well, anything for my dear Haneth," he declared to himself, privately pleased that he was so well thought of (even by that very peculiar relation of Haneth's). He resolved to help settle this "important business", as Haneth put it—after all it would not do to disappoint her. He read the rest of Haneth's letter (which mostly involved clumsy but endearing comparisons of Lindir's attributes to natural phenomena like the moon and stars and rock pools), then began examining the attached sheet, covered in Neldor's excruciatingly neat hand. He read it once, blinked, swallowed, and read it again. Then he reached for his harp with a shaking hand.

Some elves can foretell their own demise—they see their fates in visions, dreams, or simply _know_. Lindir was not one of these elves, but it did not take the gift of foresight for him to deduce that his doom was at hand, so to speak. Plucking a familiar technical exercise in an effort to soothe his nerves, he surveyed his options. The very idea of following Neldor's "suggestions" to make Elrond's journey "less wearisome" unnerved him—Elrond was after all, very, very high in the High King's regard, and Lindir merely a guest, here in Gil-galad's abode only by gracious invitation. Then again the thought of incurring Neldor's displeasure absolutely terrified Lindir. He decided to play it safe. After all, the Peredhel was (mostly) merciful and kind.

Ellie quite liked her new rooms. They were three times the size of her modest flat back on Earth, overlooking the sea, and simply, but elegantly and comfortably furnished. Best of all they seemed out of bounds to the average elf, even if the doors were left wide open (except for the odd exceptionally bold maiden who might peer shyly in, but usually fled when Neldor magically materialized). Ellie herself knew better, by now, than to wander too far afield. Best of all, the bedroom contained an ornate, full-length mirror (Ellie didn't know why the infirmary had no mirrors, but guessed they were perhaps expensive to produce). Now, Ellie had never been vain, but one cannot acquire a new body without finding out how it looks. And Glorfindel was _exceedingly_ good-looking. Ellie felt faint just looking at her own reflection. Lovely, glowing skin, lustrous hair (which was so golden it looked almost dyed), and cheekbones that no plastic surgeon could ever hope to achieve. And the muscles! Ellie rolled up one sleeve and experimentally curled a bicep. The resultant, tastefully large bulge was probably harder than granite. So, thought Ellie, she could hardly be blamed for spending extra time in front of the mirror. Neldor had given Ellie one or two odd looks upon discovering her gazing intently at her own reflection, but otherwise gave no sign that he disapproved of Ellie's new preoccupation.

Speaking of Neldor, Ellie was getting rather fond of her caretaker. She still hadn't forgotten the club incident, of course, and still found the memory disturbing and Neldor's behaviour inexplicable. But the healer regularly went out of his way to make Ellie comfortable, and it was impossible not to trust him in the face of his gentle, charming smiles. Besides, reflected Ellie a tad mournfully, it wasn't as if she had any friends in this world (well, it wasn't as if she had many friends in _that_ world, either), so she had better start making some now.

Neldor tore wildly at his hair in utter frustration. His research was _not_ going well. Given the pivotal role of Balrogs in killing off major heroes of the First Age, one would think that someone would have written a proper treatise on the subject. No, instead there were all these ballads about generic monsters of "shadow and flame" and useless hundred-page arguments on whether or not they had wings (strangely enough, all the authors managed to circumvent the issue of any other features altogether). And the only illustration he had managed to find looked more like a winged cow on fire than anything else ( which he highly doubted was to any degree accurate, unless Morgoth's strategy involved incapacitating his enemies by making them howl with laughter).

He let out a long despairing sigh. Perhaps Cirdan would know.

"I do not know," said Círdan, when Neldor asked.

Neldor frowned. "Were you not in the War of Wrath?"

"Well, so were you," pointed out Cirdan.

"But I was not at the front," reminded Neldor. "I was busy sewing men back together, if you recall."

"Ah, yes, indeed," said the Shipwright, stroking his short, sparse beard. "I never saw the Balrogs though- the Valar took care of them. Kept well away from all the lightening bolts and fireballs and odd mushroom-shaped clouds."

"But you are so _old_," pressed Neldor. "Surely, once in your life…"

"Ah, but I stayed near the Sea most of the time. No Balrogs ever came near the Falas. Hypersensitive to salt spray, maybe. Or perhaps they do not like the wet."

Neldor rolled his eyes. "Then I have no further questions, my lord," he concluded, and made to leave.

"Wait, Neldor!"

Neldor paused hopefully in his steps.

Cirdan furrowed his brow. "Why exactly do you want to know how a Balrog looks like anyway?"

Neldor pretended not to hear and scurried quickly away.

Lindir slipped into the stables and crept noiselessly along until he came to a stall which housed a big bay horse. Elrond's horse was much like his owner – kindly, intelligent, and too fond of sweets. The gelding eyed Lindir, wary curiosity showing on his expressive face. "Come, Rochael(1)," said Lindir, a little nervously. "See what I have here!" He held out a piece of confectionery, carefully made to Neldor's written instructions. The horse gave him a Look which reminded Lindir eerily of Elrond.

"No? You do not want it?" Lindir waved the sweet tantalizingly in front of the horse. "Crystallized beetroot and candied apple, with a dash of mint." _And whatever that was in that sachet_, he added silently.

Rochael remained annoyingly cautious, stepping further back away from the elf, snorting softly at Lindir's outstretched hand.

"Look, it's a treat!" exclaimed Lindir, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. Horses, in his experience, _never_ rejected treats. "I am not poisoning you_!" At least, I think not_. Again, the bay favored him with another expression entirely too close to one of the Peredhel's for comfort. Lindir wondered briefly if the two were actually somehow related, then shook his head. There was a more important issue at hand. Lindir considered his options. Three sweets in the bag—Neldor said to ensure the horse ate all of them. But surely, one less was better than none…

He turned to the facing stall, which housed an unfamiliar grey mare, and softly read the name inscribed on the door. "Suldal." The mare, upon hearing her name, came forward and puffed friendlily at Lindir's hair. Making sure that Rochael had full view of what was happening, he offered the confectionery to the mare, who lipped up the treat and crunched merrily upon itt.

Opposite, Rochael, who had been craning his neck to observe the goings-on, stomped his foot in equine jealousy. Humming a triumphant air, Lindir walked up to him and fed the rest of the sticky cubes to the eager horse.

Lindir was surprised to find that he actually rather enjoyed this. Perhaps his recent success buoyed him up; perhaps because it was so different from what Lindir normally did. Lindir the minstrel, people called him, Lindir who had the voice and brains of a bird (admittedly, that had been a very low whisper--but Lindir had _very_ sharp ears), Lindir the Short and Not Terribly Clever. No one would suspect him, ever. Task completed, he slunk out of the stables towards the palace. The labors of Lindir had just begun.

Rochael (S.): Wise Horse.

Many thanks to the angels of GoI for their wonderful beta work.


	10. Intimations of Flammability

Disclaimer: I own only Neldor and Ellie.

Chapter warnings: Abuse of a Peredhel and mentions of poor hygiene.

"Rochael is a little frisky today," commented the stablehand as he handed Elrond the reins.

Elrond frowned_. Frisky?_ Rochael was never _frisky. _The closest the placid gelding had ever come to being _frisky_ was a kind of sedate enthusiasm. Yet the big bay did indeed look unusually alert and perky (like Erestor after too much tea), quivering in excitement as Elrond swung onto his broad back.

"Safe journey, Master Elrond," called the stablehand cheerfully as Rochael practically danced out of the yard.

Scarcely two hours later, as they entered a wood, Rochael began to shy from objects that were clearly not there. He also appeared to be convinced that every other fallen twig was a venomous snake.

Not long after, Elrond found himself lying in the dirt at regular intervals. On the eighth occasion, Elrond decided that he completely regretted not acting on his gut instincts when that insufferable groom had called his horse "frisky" (an understatement, Elrond thought).

Elrond's legendary patience finally wore out after sprawling in every conceivable position possible in every conceivable kind of terrain, and developing so many bruises that Elrond was quite sure he must be as uniformly purple as an aubergine. Snapping a command at the unrepentant and still very energetic Rochael, Elrond began the trek back to Minas-en-Elenath—on foot—thanking the stars that he had not gotten terribly far.

As luck would have it, he chanced upon a deer that had caught its leg among a tangle of brambles. Being the kind, compassionate healer that he was, Elrond freed the poor animal and prepared to stitch up its wounds.

He reached into a saddle bag and pulled out the small wooden box that held all his tools and powders. He opened it, only to find it full of rings, ribbons, and other feminine decorations. Frowning, he examined the box in greater detail, and found a little chip in one corner that he did not recall ever seeing. _Strange_, he mused, and then a further thought struck him. He got up quickly and began to undo the bundle that held the artifacts he was taking to the Havens. The sword had been replaced by a poker, the banner by an apron, and the dagger by an imaginatively shaped piece of charcoal.

_But who would do such a thing, _wondered the annoyed Peredhel. And it merely reinforced his suspicion that _someone_ had had the gall to do something to his favorite (well, _only_—Elrond believed in frugality--but that was not the point) horse.

- - -

Why hadn't she thought of this sooner, wondered Ellie as she scrawled a picture of a filled bath. Ellie, in a sudden fit of inspiration, had indicated her wish to communicate using drawings (and was proud she'd thought of it before the Elves), and Neldor, ever helpful, had brought her the slate and some chalk. It would greatly convenience her, especially considering that Neldor was no longer always nearby. Particularly just then, when Ellie realized with horror that she had not taken a bath for heaven knew how many _days_. Granted, she didn't _smell_, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered.

_Well, that looks reasonable,_ she thought, holding up the slate to admire her work. Stepping cautiously out of her rooms she scanned the corridors. No elf-women, good. And the male attendant she'd spotted hovering around recently stood conveniently in a nearby corner, patiently watering a potted plant. Ellie felt bad about bothering the man, but she really, _really_ had to take a bath before she died of mental anguish. Thankfully the man spotted her almost immediately, and upon being shown the slate, nodded, and disappeared down a corridor with efficiency unheard of in the modern world, very nearly colliding with a figure going in the opposite direction.

" Hello, Neldor," greeted Ellie, unable to keep back a grin at the attendant's look of abject terror at Neldor's positively _poisonous_ glare. One wouldn't think that such a friendly person would be capable of such ferocity, but Círdan's entire household (with the exception of the lord himself) seemed to hold Neldor in mortal fear. Neldor, smoothing down his hair, returned the greeting in his own, Elvish way, tongue running like water over words that Ellie despaired of ever pronouncing.

They sat down by a window, and Neldor fished out a book from one of the pockets of his apron.

"What's this? I can't read Elvish!" cried Ellie as the book was pushed into her hands. Neldor smiled, and gestured for her to turn the pages. Ah, a picture book! No, wait, thought Ellie, leafing through it. More like some kind of illustrated encyclopedia of… a _place?_ White towers, mountains, gate upon gate upon gate. Bells were jangling riotously in her head.

"Gondolin?" she ventured, and immediately regretted it as Neldor squealed (yes, _squealed) _and thumped her on the back, grinning insanely. _Oh dear, _she thought dismally. _Now he thinks I've—Glorfindel has-- remembered._

Calming a little, Neldor pulled out a scroll from another pocket, unrolled it to reveal something that looked very oddly like a toothy cow, then watched Ellie closely, as if expecting some sort of reaction. Ellie stared awhile at the horned beast (colored in arbitrary swirls of red and green and black) before shrugging apologetically. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that is."

The healer, though obviously disappointed, shook his head and smiled, then appeared to withdraw into his own thoughts.

Just then came a sharp rap on the door, and the attendant entered – with a large bowl of soup. Ellie couldn't suppress a groan. Was her drawing truly that bad? "I'm sorry, that wasn't what I wanted, but I thank you," she told the bemused attendant, shaking her head.

Neldor, guessing her predicament, picked up the slate. Then, frowning, he turned it upside down. Ellie, with great difficulty, resisted the temptation to bury her head in her hands. This could take a while.

- - -

Mandos meandered through the gardens, doing his best to avoid stepping on sleeping visitors and occasionally asking for directions from one of the hundreds of spirits who swarmed like flies (albeit mostly invisible ones) over the flowers and fountains. (I really have to get rid of all this excessive alliteration)

He finally found the Master of Dreams lounging beside an enchanted pool (of _something _that was definitely _not_ water), idly poking at the swirling, iridescent liquid with a twig. Lórien seldom bothered to come up with original dreams or visions unless there was a real need, mostly doing he did what he was doing now—simply stirring up memories and fantasies and presenting them in slightly different forms.

"Greetings, brother," said Lórien, without looking up.

"Greetings, Irmo," replied Mandos, coming to sit by the other Vala. He leant forward, peering into the pool. The Children dreamed of _cows_? _Burning_ _cows_?

Lórien smiled languidly. "Such imaginations, the Firstborn." He sat up, abandoning his work, and unhurriedly turned to look at Mandos. "You seldom come in person, Námo. This must be important business."

"Indeed," said Mandos, feeling he should really get to the point before his brother's mind drifted elsewhere (and where his mind drifted his physical manifestation tended to follow). "There has been a problem with one Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, one of the re-embodied ones…he was in Estë's care, I believe?"

"Oh yes," said Lórien. "The one with the pretty yellow hair that went _so_ well with the geraniums."

"Then you might recall that he disappeared somewhat… abruptly?"

"Yes," replied Lórien, "But that happens on a fairly regular basis. Just recently Manwë whisked away a fellow called Ecthelion to only he knows where, probably to sing at his feet or something. A pity—he made _such_ a lovely lawn ornament, too. We thought something of that nature had happened to this Glorfindel, and since his healing was nearly complete, we were not overly alarmed. But I see now this is not so."

Mandos nodded. "I fear that something most regrettable has happened to Glorfindel," And he proceeded to tell Lórien about what had transpired.

Lórien thoughtfully chewed on the end of the twig as Mandos spoke, but otherwise seemed as unruffled as ever. That was the good thing about Lórien—never surprised (after all, the Master of Dreams was no stranger to strangeness), seldom judgmental, and always so very calm.

"I see," he said eventually. "So, what must be done?"

"Glorfindel must understand that this is only a minor and temporary inconvenience. He must be made aware that he is to carry out his duties as previously briefed."

Lórien nodded slowly. "It shall be done," he agreed. "I assume Manwë knows of this?"

Mandos twitched and made a noncommittal noise that might have _just_ passed for a "Yes" in Valarin. Well, it would eventually be true.

- - -

"Ah, Master Elrond! Back so soon?" greeted the stablehand in his gratingly jovial voice as Elrond limped into the yard, dragging his (still very energetic) horse behind him.

"Yes," said Elrond shortly. "Rochael is a little too _frisky_ today, I am afraid. Have you got another mount I could use?"

"Well, there is the donkey," began the stablehand doubtfully.

"I take that as a no, then," remarked Elrond dryly. "No mind, I will see if the King will grant me the use of one of his precious steeds."

"Grant you use of what?" Gil-galad came sauntering into the yard at that moment, dressed for riding, his little dog held in the crook of one arm. He blinked as he took in Elrond's disheveled appearance. "Gracious, Elrond, what _happened?" _

In response, Elrond very pointedly handed the stablehand Rochael's reins, and coughed. The stablehand swept a low bow and disappeared (as far as it was possible to disappear with a large, spirited horse in tow).

"Well?" Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, and absently stroked the yawning hound.

Elrond told him, trying not to snarl, and presented the contents of his healer's kit and bundle as evidence.

"Oh dear," said the High King, poking at a particularly lacy ribbon with a gloved finger. "Have you any idea why this has been done to you? And who do you think might be responsible?"

"It was clearly calculated to delay me, if not out of sheer spite," replied Elrond grimly. "And there is only one person who is capable of such childishness, though I do not know who he persuaded to carry out these deeds."

"Hmm. At least, the loss of those valuable artifacts is probably not permanent." Gil-galad gave that aggravating smile that indicated he was highly amused. Elrond wondered how much the High King knew about his (admittedly very immature) rivalry with the Sindarin healer. Probably everything, knowing him.

"I will have the matter investigated," soothed Gil-galad. "Rest a little, replace your kit, do something about those _dreadful_ bruises, and you should best be on your way. If you need a mount, take my new grey mare— her stall is just opposite Rochael's. Mild, gentle, and goes like the wind."

Elrond nodded, sighing. Gil-galad might be vain and overly fond of ridiculous-looking pint-sized dogs, but he was certainly _efficient_. He decided, though, that whoever had dared to lay their fingers on his beloved instruments deserved a private talking-to.

- - -

A few dozen ambiguous drawings and some bad miming (of scrubbing under the arms—which very nearly gave the attendant a fit and Neldor a stitch in his side) later, Ellie eventually got her bath.

Mind pleasantly stupefied from the steam, relaxed and nearly as squeaky clean as a sterilized workbench, Ellie contentedly strolled back into the sitting room. Neldor was nowhere to be seen, and Ellie assumed he had gone off on some healerly duty or another. _Perhaps I'll take a nap, then, _she thought (after all, it wasn't as if there was anything else to do), and turned to walk to her bedroom—only to have something unbearably bright and _hot _flash before her face, very nearly scorching the tip of her nose.

Ellie shrieked and leapt back. It was Neldor, holding a flaming brand. Recovering from her scare, she caught fleeting expressions of smugness and puzzlement pass over the healer's face before being finally replaced with a look of almost angelic innocence.

"Neldor! What are you doing?" Ellie demanded sharply. Neldor, putting on an injured air, murmured something that could have been an apology, crossed quickly in front of her to light the sconces on the wall, then nodded briefly and left the room before Ellie could say another word.

Frowning, Ellie glanced out the window. Sunlight still poured in, and a chaffinch obligingly sung from a nearby perch. Hours from sunset yet. What exactly _was_ Neldor up to?

Neldor, tucked away in his study, sat with quill poised over the last written page of his patient records. After a moment's meditation, he wrote, "_Patient recognizes his city of origin from pictures, but does not recall the creature that caused his death. Another possibility might be that the creature was not accurately represented. Patient's response to flame was entirely normal—perhaps the stimulus was not sufficiently strong?" _Sighing, Neldor put down his quill and kneaded his temples, thinking hard. He remembered the existence of a recipe of a certain concoction, that, when lit, produced a great (if brief) flare and copious amounts of smoke. The elves seldom used it, citing its danger, but Neldor was certain he could safely modify it for his own ends.

A/N: Many thanks to the good folk of GoI for their excellent beta-work, and especial thanks goes to gandalfsapprentice for coming up with the title of this chapter. Feedback is much appreciated-- do you see a typo? A loophole? Please let me know.


	11. Of Gardens and Plots

Ellie found herself lying in a bed of geraniums. Sitting up, she looked about her and saw a garden of unearthly beauty, every square inch of ground covered in flowers or graceful ornamental trees, many unknown to Ellie (and thus presumably, to modern science). A fountain tinkled somewhere in the distance.

And she was _herself_, Ellie realized dizzily. _I must be dreaming,_ she thought, gazing with wonder at one hand (_her_ hand) while running the other through her short hair.

A glint of gold among the verdant green caught her eye. She stood up to get a better look, and gasped in surprise when she recognized the handsome face that had stared back at her in the mirror the past week or so among the vegetation. Glorfindel's eyes were shut, as if in slumber, and he looked like a particularly beautiful garden statue brought to life (or not-life—Ellie wasn't quite sure).

"Glorfindel?" ventured Ellie, as she picked her way through the flowers (trying not to crush too many). Tentatively, she reached out and shook him. "Glorfindel! Glorfindel!" He was warm to the touch, but did not wake, and Ellie felt a sense of dread wash over her.

_Oh dear_, she thought, and woke in a cold sweat.

Across the Sundering Sea, Lórien peered into his pool, poked at the swirling liquid with his favorite stick, and frowned.

---

Elrond, quite determined to reach the Havens as quickly as he possibly could to foil whatever nefarious plot he was _sure_ Neldor must be hatching, readied himself in record time and headed back to the stables despite the waning light. Rochael had (very wisely) been turned out in a paddock to work off his _friskiness_, and Suldal, the mare Gil-galad had loaned him, was waiting for him in the yard, the very picture of equine tractability.

Until Elrond got on, whereupon the mare abruptly shot off like an arrow (well, it _would_ have been like an arrow if she zig-zagged a little less), leaving the startled Peredhel clinging on for dear life until he finally managed to find his balance again.

"Well named indeed," muttered Elrond, wondering what _exactly_ the grooms had been feeding the horses.

Several near-accidents involving overhanging tree branches later, Suldal finally seemed to tire, and gradually slowed into a sluggish trot, much to Elrond's relief. Suddenly able to think again (processing any thoughts more complex than "oh, no" becomes well nigh impossible while hurtling at full speed through a wood), Elrond could not help but wonder if this was perhaps more than a coincidence. The bundle and kit, yes, he was _sure_ of Neldor's involvement, and perhaps even Rochael, come to think of it, but Gil-galad's own horse? He doubted the culprit could have anticipated his borrowing of this particular mare. No, it was probably Gil-galad's own assessment of his horse that was in question. "Mild and quiet, I'm sure," grumbled the Peredhel, as he very carefully steered Suldal out of the undergrowth and back onto the forest road.

---

Feanor was at it _again._ Mandos watched in gloomy frustration as the spirits of the dead clustered around the elf, held rapt with attention by his oratory. By the looks of it, Random Newly Re-embodied Elf #2 (or Alhael, as he discovered was his name after finally bothering to check the List) was not doing much to resist the takeover, either. Or perhaps he could not help it—Feanor could be _very_ persuasive at times. Mandos supposed he should be glad that Alhael's voice was thin and reedy and thus not _quite _so effective for making rousing speeches (he could pick up waves of suspicion coming from a good few).

"That is quite enough now," he boomed, crossing to where the elf stood in a few strides. He clapped his hands on the elf's shoulders. "You will come with me."

"Ah you _see?_" cried Feanor-as-Alhael (or Alhael-as-Feanor) to his audience as he struggled beneath the Vala's grip. "Such disregard for the intrinsic right of every person to the freedom of—"

"_Enough_," hissed Mandos, and took them both out of the Halls in an eyeblink.

"Ah, brother, I was just thinking I wished to see you," said Lórien as Mandos approached. He made a graceful, circular hand motion in the direction of the now-slightly-bemused-but-still-defiant Feanor-as-Alhael. "The… erroneously re-embodied Spirit of Fire, I presume? You have brought him for rest and healing?"

"In a manner of speaking," replied Mandos. "For now, I would like to request that you put him to sleep for an indefinite period of time in some remote corner of your gardens. I cannot keep him in the Halls—very bad influence on the dead."

Lórien, somewhat bemused, sang a short, wordless song, and the elf slumped to the ground. Mandos conjured a small breeze to fan away the suddenly very heavily lavender-scented air in front of his nose.

"I wish you would not do that," he complained.

"I cannot help how it works," replied Lórien, shrugging slightly. "It is as Eru wills." One of the many Maiar in the vicinity came forward and picked up the unconscious elf.

"Put him in one of the walled gardens," Lórien instructed. The Maia gave a little bow and whisked the elf off.

"What did you wish to speak to me about?" asked Mandos, once the troublemaker was out of sight.

"My dear brother," said Lórien. "We have a slight problem."

---

Neldor very, very carefully mixed a white powder, some yellow granules, and crushed willow charcoal in his mortar, taking care not to use his pestle with _too_ much vigor. He then tipped the mixture out onto a piece of paper, and folded it up into a packet, securing it with string. Slipping the packet into the pocket of his healer's apron (of which Neldor was inordinately fond and wore at all times except when sleeping) Neldor mentally reviewed all the possible scenarios in which he could conceivably use his concoction without getting into _too _much trouble. In a bonfire? No, too conspicuous. In the hearth? Too small a space—might be dangerous. Though he _could_ adjust its composition so it would not blow a hole in the wall. Or perhaps he could lure Glorfindel into some secluded open space, where the mixture would be cleverly hidden, and then set alight just as he walked past. Neldor's herb garden would do nicely—no one dared to enter without Neldor's permission, and Glorfindel already seemed to like the area. Neldor felt a faint twinge of regret at the thought of the inevitable burnt patch that would result. But, thought Neldor virtuously, one had to make sacrifices for the sake of the greater good.

---

When at long, long last the long-suffering Herald and his untrusty steed arrived at Mithlond, Círdan was waiting at the gates. Delighted to see his old mentor again, he greeted Círdan enthusiastically and was rewarded with a hearty thump on the back that knocked all the wind out of him.

"Well, young Elrond," said Círdan. "You have had a safe and pleasant journey, I trust? The scenery is astounding at this time of year."

"Ah. I must have been somewhat preoccupied," replied Elrond. He followed Círdan into the city, through the meandering cobbled streets and into Círdan's vast dwelling.

Though the hallways were empty, Elrond could feel dozens of pairs of eyes upon him. Every visit to the Havens never failed to unnerve him. There was just something too… _forward_ about the female population.

"Glorfindel is often in Neldor's herbarium these days," said Círdan conversationally as they walked (or rather, Círdan walked, and Elrond maintained a sort of undignified half-jog to keep up). Elrond wondered if he was even aware of the … problem within his halls. Or perhaps he simply pretended it did not exist. "He seems to have an interest in plant lore, and strangely enough Neldor allows him the run of the place. Very unlike him. At any rate it seems to calm Glorfindel down; he does not get agitated nearly so often."

"It is the duty of a healer to place his patients' welfare above all else," recited Elrond primly.

"I wish Neldor understood that," replied Círdan dryly.

Elrond was showed his rooms, and Círdan bade him rest. Though tired and aching, Elrond's infallible intuition told him he should remove Glorfindel from Neldor's insidious care as soon as possible, before something unthinkably horrific could happen.

---

"Uncle, uncle!"

Alarmed by the sudden high-pitched squeal, Neldor's knife slipped, ruining the unfortunate plant he was in the midst of harvesting. Haneth flounced into view, curls flying about her brainless head. It _would_ have to be her, of course. No one else would be so foolish as to court their own doom by entering his private herb garden without his express permission.

"What is it, niece?" he asked, as amiably as he could manage.

"Elrond Peredhel is here!" sang Haneth, clapping her hands like an excited child.

"Oh?" Neldor felt his heart sink. So soon? That fool Lindir must have bungled up, as usual.

"Everyone is talking about it," continued Haneth breathlessly. "You know how he is so very popular and gentle and kind and modest and…" She paused to draw a great lungful of air. "And I came to tell you, uncle, because I know you and he are _such_ good friends…"

Neldor mentally rolled his eyes. Yes. _Such_ good friends, that they were practically enemies.

"Well, I must be going now," said Haneth. "They will be needing extra help in the kitchens today. She turned to leave, giggled and flushed a little at the sight of Glorfindel half-hidden behind a tree, and, rustling her skirts, then fairly ran out of the garden.

Neldor was glad to see her go, for he had very little time, and much to do.


	12. The Healer

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Ellie happily hummed to herself as she rubbed the waxy leaf of a fascinating evergreen tree between thumb and forefinger, pausing to sigh in pleasure as the unique fragrance of the aromatic oils released by the action wafted up to her nose. She was beginning to truly enjoy her sabbatical, or so she called it in her mind, a no small part of her still clinging to the hope of being returned to her proper place and time in the universe, even as she had accepted her fate. These afternoon trips to the wonderful walled garden had become an almost daily occurrence, and Ellie was ecstatic for a space free of fainting women and unbearably handsome men (Ellie had since long discovered that while Neldor _was_ rather good-looking, he was _nothing_ compared to the works of art Ellie had seen hanging around the place).

Neldor seemed to be fussing with a bushy sort of herb. Noticing Ellie looking in his direction, he smiled and gestured for Ellie to come over, pointing at the plant. Ellie eagerly made her way towards him. As she entered the little patch of nearly-bare ground (newly cleared and ready for seeding, she assumed), Neldor bent down, and with his back towards her, appeared to be striking something against a stone. Then the gate to the garden creaked open, and Neldor hurriedly threw what looked like a lit match to the ground, snuffing it out with his booted toe, and immediately assumed an expression of angelic innocence. Ellie narrowed her eyes. What was he up to _now_?

Círdan entered the garden, another, taller elf behind him, and an expression of near panic flitted across Neldor's face. Then his eyes did a little dip and slide towards a small depression in the ground that was almost suspiciously covered with dried leaves. Ellie's eyes narrowed further.

Círdan and the new elf had come forward, and began speaking to Neldor, who was now very obviously sulking. Curious, Ellie took a closer look at the newcomer. Raven-haired, grey-eyed and almost achingly beautiful, the newcomer seemed the very definition of "tall, dark and handsome", and exuded an aura of wisdom and power.

He stepped towards her, smiling slightly. He spoke something unintelligible, and pressed one hand over his heart. "Elrond," he then enunciated clearly.

Ellie couldn't stop her jaw from dropping.

--

Mandos had a very, _very_ bad feeling.

"So," he said slowly. "What is this _slight_ problem?"

Lórien smiled faintly. "I have been unable to reach Glorfindel. It appears that he was incapacitated by his overly abrupt re-embodiment. Of course, the entry of a foreign soul must have taken its own toll. It seems as if the strange woman you were speaking of – Nelli? Welli?—is in complete control of Glorfindel's body at the moment."

Mandos sighed. This was not _entirely_ unexpected, and yet he had hoped—

"And before you ask," continued Lórien. "I do not know when Glorfindel will awaken. Very tricky thing, consciousness."

"You and I, brother, are the two who know most about the connection between body and soul," said Mandos, a little desperately. "We will solve this." They _had_ to.

"Well, can you not see what is to come, Doomsman?" asked Lórien, a little petulantly. "Can you not tell what paths we must take?"

Mandos fidgeted and coughed.

"All is not yet set in stone," he said slowly and in what he hoped was a convincingly authoritative manner. "And such things may not be spoken of, even for such a purpose. All I can say is that there are deeds that must be done; events that must be set in motion. And that Glorfindel has his part to play."

"So we might have to remove the woman?" wondered Lórien, idly drawing circles in the ground with his stick. "That will be difficult."

"Indeed," replied Mandos, reflecting that he had not _quite _yet gotten round to that part. Perhaps he had been too hasty in removing Feanor-Alhael from his halls.

--

Elrond wondered for a moment if the petty rumors were true after all, and Glorfindel was merely an empty-headed sword-wielding blond with a talent for systematically knocking things off cliffs (including wolves, several hordes of orcs, and himself plus a fairly large Balrog in his famous last act of heroism).

The erstwhile leader of the House of the Golden Flower was currently sporting the dumbly incredulous expression of an asphyxiating fish.

_Or perhaps the shock of re-embodiment truly was too much for him,_ pondered Elrond. _And then immediately being thrust into the clutches of that incompetent fool… _

He turned to Círdan and Neldor (the latter of whom was wearing his famous artificial smile) and requested to examine Glorfindel.

"Of course," replied Círdan immediately. "Neldor _will_ provide all necessary assistance." He punctuated his sentence with a hard glare at the healer, whose smile was becoming noticeably strained.

"Much obliged," replied Elrond, not _quite _able to keep the smirk off his face.

Well, the issue of Glorfindel certainly had its importance (with all its socio-political ramifications and all that), but Elrond would be damned if he would miss this opportunity to put that quack healer in his place once and for all, for the peace of mind of all sentient beings this side of the Sundering Sea.

--

After a long period of quiet agonizing on how _exactly _this … extraction … was to be done (without the slightest input from his brother), Mandos finally hit upon an idea.

"The tether that binds the soul to the body is weakest when a person is close to death, in deep meditation, or in extreme emotional distress" explained Mandos. At least, he _thought_ so, from what his observations suggested. Eru had never been very clear on the subject. "When two souls are inhabiting the same body, the same three processes may result in the expulsion of the foreign soul, which has a weaker connection to the body." _Possibly. Hopefully._

"Ah." Lórien tapped his chin thoughtfully with a finger.

"That is difficult, even using the power of dreams, which can only influence a person so much."

Mandos fretted a little before experiencing a brief flash of inspiration. Perhaps… perhaps there _was_ a way, after all…

"I remember something on one of Vaire's recent tapestries," Mandos recalled. "It seems to be a recurring theme. Perhaps it will give us some insight."

--

Ellie didn't quite know what to think. Elrond—_ from the book!-- _ was currently giving her something that probably amounted to some sort of physical examination. It involved a fair amount of prodding and tapping and making Ellie blink. At least Elrond seemed to be meticulously writing down notes, which was much more than Neldor ever did. Wait, so they _still_ thought Glofindel was ill or something? Ellie remembered that Neldor never believed (or understood) her efforts to tell him that she _wasn't _ the hero. So Elrond was here as… a consultant? It did make some sense— didn't Elrond heal up the hobbit-guy in the story?

A small part of her vainly hoped that maybe, just maybe, Elrond had brought some kind of magic elf-stone that would set everything to rights. But Ellie's common sense knew better. The first thing Ellie learnt as a scientist, after all, is that _nothing_ was ever that simple.

As if to seal her fate, Elrond gave her a perplexed frown and shook his head slightly before giving a little bow and leaving the room.

Elrond strode into Neldor's study. This was going to be unpleasant, but Elrond had long gotten used to dealing with downright unpleasant stuff in his capacity as Herald and occasional pet minder.

"Elrond," Neldor greeted in a tone that just about but not quite bordered on rude.

"Nel-dor," responded Elrond, drawing out the syllables. "How … pleasant to see you again."

"Likewise."

"I have taken the liberty of examining your patient," Elrond continued. " Fascinating case, I must say. And _such_ an important personality! You must be terribly thrilled by such a challenge." _Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for Glorfindel and possibly the fate of Middle Earth, I am taking this out of your incompetent hands._

"Indeed, very honored" replied Neldor dryly. His eyes narrowed, almost as if he had heard Elrond's unspoken words. "So, I am dying of anticipation. Please _do_ share your views on the patient. Perhaps one of your 'rare and difficult malignancies'?"

Elrond ignored the jibe. "Hardly. Just your average memory loss from shock, which is understandable given the circumstances.'

"Then we are in agreement," said Neldor. "How unusual."

"I am afraid you are forgetting your own diagnoses if you think so."

Neldor actually growled, the savage. "_Do_ explain."

Elrond restrained a snort. "You _did_ suggest memory loss, but Glorfindel is clearly _not_ under the delusion that he is a dwarf."

Neldor, visibly angering, opened his mouth, but Elrond, his good sense finally overpowering his desire to argue with the idiot, waved away his retort.

"Oh never mind," he sighed. "Let us go through the records and discuss this case like civilized professionals."

Neldor, sulking like a child, got up and headed for his shelves.

--

Neldor gritted his teeth and firmly clenched his firsts to prevent himself from tearing Gil-galad's Herald into thousands of tiny pieces. The young upstart was currently casually dismissing _every one_ of Neldor's methods ("rather unorthodox, hmm?"), diagnoses ("somewhat unlikely, don't you think?"), suggestions for treatment ("out of the question!") and even the organization of the infirmary ("considerably understaffed—how _do_ you manage?" ).

And he was saying it all with such an earnest, falsely sincere look on his face that proclaimed his objectivity to the world.

Neldor knew better, of course.

Elrond did not seem to notice Neldor's steadily darkening expression, and continued prattling on in that nauseatingly perfect tenor of his.

"Perhaps you should have conducted a systematic analysis of--"

Neldor had had enough.

--

They traveled to his domain, where Vaire was working industriously on her loom.

"We wish to look at some of the tapestries," said Mandos to his wife, after they had exchanged greetings.

She nodded absently and gestured at the expansive tapestries hanging about the room. "If you can find them. The maidens have yet to catalogue them all."

Mandos sifted through the stuff until he finally came to one he recognized.

"I do believe it is this one," he said, holding out the tapestry. He indicated a particular scene in one corner.

Lórien bent a little to look.

"Oh my."

Mandos pointed out a few more. "And this, here. Here, as well."

Lórien looked, his eyes uncharacteristically wide.

"Ah," he said at last, after a long period of silence. "I suppose this means that we are allowed to do nothing."

Mandos sighed, partly in relief. "So you agree. Yes, it seems it might just work out by itself in the end. The Firstborn are quite … _resourceful_, after all. It would be for the best—you know we are encouraged not to meddle." Now all Mandos had to do was to convince himself that this_ was_ truly the best course of action and would not end in disaster.


End file.
